Lycanthropes Ep 2-Realms of Luck
by dharak
Summary: Summary-the Lycanthropes band of mercenary sky knights land in the scorching city of Rithmere, center of one of Deltora's eight territories. A money theft leaves them desperate for income, and the seemingly innocent need kicks off a long journey into the dangerous desert known as the Shifting Sands, and the ancient threat at the center….
1. Rithmere

_Summary-the Lycanthropes band of mercenary sky knights land in the scorching city of Rithmere, center of one of Deltora's ten territories. A money theft leaves them desperate for income, and the seemingly innocent need kicks off a long journey into the dangerous desert known as the Shifting Sands, and the ancient threat at the center…._

_**REALMS OF LUCK**_

_Definitions_

_quinto=amihawkian money, paper like dollar bills. Depending on where it's printed, each is adorned with a different crest and pattern of the respective nation, but regardless is legal tender all over the world._

_Basteredei-the Arsan term for bastard._

_Eastern Union-one of Amihawk's two major political alliances. Allied countries in trade and arms are Deltora, Afrisia, Atmos, Skyberia, and Renim (reformed.)_

_races appearing in story-_

_varon-part of the terradon race, lizard humanoids with colorful scales, hair, and pointed ears._

_Felisar-cat humanoids with the facial features of house cats, tails, and fur in thousands of patterns and colors. _

_Kerion-another at humanoid race, but resembling large felines like lions and tigers more, with broader muzzles, thicker tails, and larger ears. _

_Blizzarian-wolfish humanoids with bowed legs and stumpy tails. _

_Visorak-reptilian swamp creature about the size of a large dog. _

CHAPTER ONE-

**RITHMERE**

Rithmere was thought of as many things by both native Deltorans and the world-heavily cultural, home of many great works of both artistry and architectural design, and above all, it was the place to go for games-games of chance and cards, dice, and any number of other activities. To a teenager, it was a dream place to go, to let go and have fun-even if there ended up being some minor debt.

But it was also known for being hot, located as it was in the central part of Deltora's landmass. The nearby desert was the most profound example of the searing hot weather, but the largely flat and rocky terrain helped emphasize the point perfectly well. The Lycanthropes Sky Knight and mercenary squadron had arrived here for supplies-and on the insistence of their resident pilot, whom felt that a upgraded coolant system for their ship was sorely needed.

All of them had their own opinions and ways of coping.

Personally, Fearon found the heat to be bearable. But since he was part of the terradon race, a higher tolerance wasn't altogether unexpected. Even so, he did find the intense sun to be uncomfortable after a time. A testament was that sweat had stuck his dark black hair to his brow. Streaks of gray marred it, making him look older than eighteen.

Fearon hadn't realized they had lost track of a certain person until he and Somra were standing by a window, looking at what had caught the leader's attention a moment before.

The sword sheath was edged by metal, with enforced leather sides. It was the kind of sheath made for ridged blades-like one of Fearon's two swords. More than that, it was decorated, small crescent moon shaped pieces of metal lining the metal edging. Alternating stripes of brown and dark brown streaked the leather.

Thinking of the specific sheath made him grimace. Fearon slipped his current one off and inspected the leading side again.

"Ridged blades need special sheaths, right?" he asked. He was part hoping that Somra would say he was wrong.

The resident weapons specialist shook her head sadly. She used one hand to toss her silver hair over one shoulder, and leaned forward to take a closer look. "Can I see?"

"Sure."

Somra took the sheath from him, and Fearon went back to staring at the one in the window. Laying the blunt leading edge of the sword on one palm and gripping the hilt in the other, he lined the weapon up with the sheath in the window.

He stared briefly, then looked back at the sword.

"Hmm. Yeah. This sheath is fraying in the back. The wear's coming from the notched edge, And it'll only get a hell worse as it goes on."

Reluctantly Fearon took his gaze away from the window. "That's what I was afraid of. But there's more about this one in particular that caught my eye."

Somra blinked, then raised a inquisitive eyebrow. The female varon wiped moisture of her eyebrow, colored midnight blue like the rest of her scales.

"What do you mean?"

"My dad said that the actual sheath for this guy was lost a long time ago." With one hand Fearon pointed at the sword he still held. He brushed dust from the road off his blue green tinted arm, then went back to talking. "They never found it again. This one matches the shape of this sword so well, it could only have been made for it. And that symbol on the side-it's in the hilt of this sword, too."

"Holy shit." Somra breathed, squinting at the sheath through the glass. Fearon's own head was reeling still from the surprise and rush of elation that something that others in his family had never found had turned up before him. He felt tempted to steal it, and knew he probably could, but had to resist the urge. The only ones he stole from now were bounty hunters and other miscreants. He wasn't one of them anymore. To earn merit as a Sky Knight-and a respectable person-he couldn't go snatching things from an antique shop. Fearon grit his teeth and banished the conniving thoughts. The reality was harsh, but true.

"Yeah. I'd like to get it...but there are problems."

"Like that this is an antique shop. Anything bought here will be highly expensive." Somra had read Fearon's early thoughts exactly.

The leader sighed sadly and looked into the window again. "Maybe we can haggle with the shop owner?"

Somra looked at him in amazement. "You really want it that much?"

"Yes," he snapped. "I do."

"Hold on," Somra had suddenly stiffened, glancing around furtively. "Where's a certain annoying bastard who shouldn't have been able to shut up about this?"

"Oh no," Fearon muttered under his breath. "He's probably gone to find Brendon..."

"And find Brendon's portion of the money," Somra exclaimed with growing horror. "And that's most of what we've got. I'll find him. You can go in and haggle."

Fearon was going to protest that as leader, he should go after the awol sharpshooter, but Somra had already dashed away. A tide of fury roiled behind her. Fearon shook his head, pitying Lehvahk when Somra found him, then entered the store.

His sensitive nose picked out old leather, paper and parchment, the distinctive smell of tarnished metal, and several other scents. Sunshafts filtered through the front windows, causing Fearon's eye to dance across many a metallic statue and several filigreed wooden boxes. He stopped for a moment, as the noises of the outside street seemed to become muted and distant. The entire shop had an archaic feel to it, like it had been frozen in time.

The presence of a computer to calculate prices seemed to be the only sign of modern times in here. Fearon shook his head and belined for the counter. He absently ran a hand along the fraying scabbard, then hissed when he nicked his fingers on the exposed teeth of the sword.

"Yach! Shit!"

Fearon licked at the cuts, then glared at his pockets when he realized he had no form of bandages with him. He was pondering tearing a strip of cloth from his shirt-gods knew it had been torn plenty of times by weapons and terrain in battle-but he was soon offered an alternative.

"Perhaps I may offer you an alternative to your shirt?"

Fearon looked up, startled. He hadn't heard the shop owner approach, but here he was. A felisar with a lines upon his catlike features, probably about in his forties.

"Uh, sure," he muttered, trudging up to the counter.

"Out of curiosity, how old are you?"

"I'm eighteen," Fearon snapped back, then mentally sighed when the shop owner blinked at his harshness. "Oh. Sorry, I'm just used to people mistaking my age."

"From the gray in your hair," the shop owner correctly guessed. "In any case, why are you really here?"

"You like getting to the point," Fearon muttered. "It's about my sword holster, and about replacing it." He took a deep breath. "I want to buy that one. Over there. And what's your name?"

"Methhar," the shopkeep muttered. Methhar craned his neck and peered past Fearon's shoulder, in the direction of where his gaze indicated. "That one, eh?"

"Yes."

"Tall order, depending on how much you have."

"Yes," Fearon said with a resigned sigh, "I know. But I really want it, and...well...I have feeling..."

Fearon trailed off near the end as he drew the sword in one swift motion and placed the old scabbard on the table. He held the weapon with the point to the floor, and feeling incredibly awkward and foolish tried again. "I'll haggle with you for it, if you do that-"

"That sword..."

Fearon blinked, wondering if he'd heard right. Why was the guy suddenly asking for his sword? Taken by a sudden feeling of possessiveness, Fearon clenched the hilt tighter. "Why?"

The shopkeeper's eyes had ignited with fierce excitement. Unnerved slightly, Fearon took a step backward, wondering if he should just back off altogether.

Then he berated himself for overeating. The man wasn't dangerous. Just at this point, probably...eccentric.

That didn't entirely make Fearon feel better.

"Please."

Methhar's voice had quieted. Now he sounded much more reasonable. With a brief hesitation, Fearon laid the sword on the counter.

The middle aged felisar stood, then ran his fingers lightly along the flat of the sword. Fearon noted with narrowed eyes that he didn't try to pick it up. The sunlight from the window filtered through, causing the blade to shine with a fierce silver glow. Looking at it, Fearon felt a sudden warmth in his chest. He couldn't tell if it was pride or desire to protect what was his.

The thought was different. In his crime ridden past Fearon had stolen plenty of things and fiercely protected his own, but this was a different feeling of protectiveness, like the sword was actually alive and they were the best of friends.

Next he would start thinking it was talking to him. The swordsman felt his lip twitch into a disturbed grimace. That idea was just too creepy.

"Do you have any idea what you have here?"

Fearon frowned at the shopkeeper's reverent tone. "A sword handed down to me?"

"Handed down?" Methhar paused. "Only one family has ever laid claim to this bade." He casually spun the weapon on the counter top, throwing beams of light across the ceiling. "What's your last name?"

"E...um," Fearon looked at his clenched hand awkwardly. It always left a bitter taste and a harsh sting behind when he talked about his family. He was not only the last one, but had become a disgrace by turning to the cutthroat side for a time-and now there were times when he felt so torn between his two sides that the pain became both mental and physical.

Regardless of that, clearly Methhar was expecting an answer. His bright eyes studied Fearon, reflecting the light like the animal he resembled. The shopkeeper tilted his head, wiry bangs flopping over his brow.

"Well?"

"...Redskye," Fearon finally admitted. The expected rush of guilt and overall depression nearly engulfed him, but it was always easier to dam it up in the presence of others. His mood lifted at the shopkeeper's next words.

"No wonder you want that holster, then. And no wonder this sword's yours now. Have you ever named it?"

"No," Fearon said uncertainly. He braced his palms on the edge of the counter, leaning to see his reflection in the shining Lunar Steel blade of his weapon. He saw the usual reflection of a varon teen with gray in his black hair and subtle lines that made him look a few years older than he was. He pressed his fingertips harder to the surface. The result of the young, lost seven year old, parents dead in a war.

The battle had been a dark day in history. The mountaintop nation Atmos had pleaded with their allies for help in a final strike against the empire of Cyclonia. Given that several other Eastern Union countries had been engulfed in their own turmoil, including Deltora, only a few squadrons of Sky Knights had been sent to help-and ended up never coming back.

Somehow the Red Wolves ship, the Strikeflier, had been found by the Lycanthrope's own pilot. Just how it had gotten away was a mystery-but it was one Fearon had always been thankful for. It was the last part of his early years to still exist.

He came back to reality upon seeing Methhar staring at him. "Um, sorry. Didn't mean to space out."

"Oh, that's fine. Memories are lucid. Back to the naming of your sword..." the felisar looked back down at them. "It's just as well that you didn't. It has a name, lost in the midst of time, which I only know through my keen interest and study of famous weapons. And on top of that, another sword meant to be paired with it." Methhar blinked down at the sword with clear admiration.

"Another sword?" A image of his second weapon-smooth edged, gleaming just as brightly as the blade currently before him, flashed in Fearon's mind's eye. "How do I tell, I mean..."

"If it's a pair? Both swords have the emblem of the Fireflare Territory's flag on the hilts."

When his mind processed that, Fearon nearly forgot how to breathe. "My other sword has that."

Methhar looked thoroughly stunned. "What? You... Kharash and Syraphe."

"What?"

"The names of your swords, boy," the old shopkeeper snapped. His eyes gleamed with humor anyway. "Kharash is dragon's fang, the ridged blade. Syraphe is moon's edge, the perfectly cut twin. The holster in the window is meant for Kharash." Methhar handed the weapon back to Fearon, who took it in a kind of dazed stupor. "I'll give you it for free."

Fearon was certain he looked like a dumbstruck idiot when he stuttered in response. "Um-what?"

"It's meant to be." The shopkeeper shrugged. "Who am I to deny fate?" He made a impatient gesture at the door. "Now off with you."

Fearon nodded numbly.

Upon leaving the shop with the new holster slung over his shoulder and occupied by Kharash, he stood staring past the buildings for a little while into the blue sky.

He'd never even considered the possibility his blades were legends, but somehow it filled a place inside him with contentment. He had never felt comfortable naming either sword, as if doing it would remove their identity.

Now Fearon realized how close he had been to the truth. The weapons did already have names, and he hadn't named them himself for fear of taking those away.

Kharash and Syraphe. The names settled well in Fearon's mind.

His moment of peace was broken by a shadow. It was vaguely humanoid, dark-and when Fearon whirled to see it, the thing had disappeared. The prickings of the shadow's gaze hadn't, though. Whatever it was had been watching him.

Fearon shivered from the sudden draft of cold, a completely unnatural thing in the burning desert lands of Deltora's warmest territory during the height of summer. Whatever it was had been watching him. And what made it worse was Fearon had no idea if it was friendly, or some specter bent of revenge.

And he had plenty of those who could come after him. Any person he had helped kill in his criminal days, including the innocent.

He remained standing stock still there, staring at the brick wall of the alley. Fearon bit his lip and willed his trembling to stop.

It was just some silhouette against the wall. Probably the result of his sleepless night, when he's been obsessively pouring over their money matters.

He didn't realize how much worse it could get until Somra called him. Fearon clicked open the phone, and was greeted with a few simple sentences.

"I've got a lead on him."

"You don't sound happy. What lead?"

"People I've talked to saw someone of Lehvahk's appearance heading toward the Champion Inn." Somra's voice sounded both disgusted and panicked. "Brendon was engrossed in the books in a bookstore, and Lehvahk snitched the money from him. I think he's out to gamble."

"...shite."

Fearon clicked the phone shut and ran for his skimmer. Then he roared off on the motorcycle/biplane machine, the shadow on the wall momentarily forgotten.

_Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx_

The shopkeeper stared at the door for some time. With a tired sigh, he sat back down behind the counter.

The door jingled again. Methhar looked up abruptly. A familiar presence had just entered the room, along with his physical embodiment-a tall kerion, with a ragged three pronged scar across the side of his face. One eye stared blankly, the other alive. The long dark trench coat was covered in desert dust.

"What did you do? Walk all the way here?"

"Close, but not quite." The kerion advanced further until his looming shadow cut across the counter. Methhar hit a key on his computer, allowing it to start calculating loans. He had an old friend to focus on.

Crossing his arms and standing, he tilted his chin up further to peer into the one blazing eye of the newcomer. With a feral smile, the other humanoid tossed his ragged, dark mane over his shoulder.

"So, what did you think of the young one? He is the next generation."

"I think that he shows promise. How many other paths have you interfered with, Rettak?"

Rettak's lips pulled into a knowing grin. "You say that like it's a bad thing….look, I was employed by Rioka to do this. The stream of destiny is something I need to monitor." Rettak's face suddenly darkened, one good eye narrowing. "But admittedly, when I saved Fearon's life, it wasn't because it had to be me."

"So it could have been anything else?" Methhar shook his head. "Quite the piece of work, you are."

"Anything else would have saved him, had I not been there. Someone else, anything else. This much my patron and destiny's flow revealed. I helped Fearon personally since I felt I owed his father-I needed to guide him back, or it would haunt me for infinity."

Methhar grimaced. This man had been less complicated when he'd been a plain old mortal. "Well then, get to it. I have other things to do with my time."

Rettak laughed. "I have a destiny in another dimension to monitor for now. It is a turbulent time for the owner of that destiny." He dipped his head, then seemed to fade into sunlight. "But keep in mind, I will be back..."

**This is the first chapter of quite a few months of work. I'd really like feedback, just to know if people are actually reading this and enjoying it. I'm hoping I got the characters appearances and personalities across well, and didn't make things too confusing. **

**Pls review :D**


	2. the Strikeflier

_I do not own Storm Hawks, or Deltora Quest/shadowlands/dragons books by Emily Rodda._

_CH 2_

_**THE STRIKEFLIER**_

_the Seven Hells__-the seven levels of the Amihawkian afterlife in the spirit word. The worst of mortals are sent there, to different levels depending on the severity of the criminal acts they performed in life (acts necessary for sentence are-willing mass murder, practicing dark magic, sadistic killing.)_

_Ai__-word in the Deltoran language that generally means, 'hey' 'hi,' 'look,' or can be simplified as a term just meant to attract attention._

_Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx_

Brendon had never felt quite so ashamed before. There had been plenty of tricks played on him, courtesy of Lehvahk, mostly. But his mistake could cost them enough to plunge them into a dire money predicament.

The half blizzarian half dragon teen did the only thing he could think of and went back to the ship. His shirt and jeans were damp with sweat. Despite his current guilt, an image of the Strikeflier's air conditioning wound its way into his head.

He took off the hat covering his backswept white horns as he entered the ship. The half in half lineage thing had always been a sore point for him. Despite the heat, he'd decided to wear the hat.

Sighing in exasperation at Lehvahk's foolishness and his own failing, Brendon ran a hand through his hair, blonde streaked with brown, tied back in a simple tail. He needed someone to talk to, but his only option wasn't too great. Or one he would prefer.

Trying to loose dust from his gray fur, he walked wearily into the bridge. Just as the mage had figured, Takar was there, working on the vents with Scout in tow. The kerion was grumbling to himself, occasionally giving Scout an order. The dog sized lizard like creature scuttled off. The visorak soon returned with a wrench in his mouth.

Takar had always reminded Brendon strongly of a lion, with a shaggy mane such a dark brown it was nearly black, and partly covered his eyes. He had the broad feline muzzle and large pointed ears signature of Kerions. Lighter brown fur covered the rest of him. The black trench coat had always lended the pilot intimidating air, even when it was currently discarded as a result of the current heat. He was wearing his usual green t-shirt and gray pants and a leather belt and shoulder sash. Green rune circles glowed by the pilot's smaller repair gadgets, and occasionally Takar would summon one into his hand. His tail flicked in agitation as something sparked.

All of the team practiced some kind of magic. Fearon and Somra favored Combat Magic, the enhancement branch that made their own natural capabilities stronger, and granted them new ones through their weapons. Brendon was a mage, a spellcaster who used ice, fire and arcane to get things done. He much preferred it to getting up close and personal, since his bony build and lack of muscle didn't make for a good defense or offense. He wasn't entirely sure what Lehvahk used, but he'd done things that seemed too questionable to be normal. The only problem was neither Brendon, Lehvahk himself, or anyone else knew if it was some form of magic or dumb luck.

Takar's magic was the third branch of Combat Magic-controlling tech. The smaller it was, the farther away he could influence it. Enhancing the Strikeflier's engines and weaponry with his own power was another trick the pilot had pulled off. Granted, not much, since it seemed to be a draining cast.

Despite his notably strong abilities and skillful piloting, Takar had to be the most unfriendly person Brendon had ever met. He never seemed to want to carry out a conversation or meet their eyes. He constantly seemed to bear a brooding expression and was infamous for pessimistic comments. And Takar and Fearon had never seemed to get along very well at all, since a fight always tended to spark between them frequently.

It was usually Brendon himself or Somra who broke it up. He didn't enjoy it. Especially since Takar always gave him a look like he wanted to flay the mage alive afterward, and Brendon was never entirely sure he was safe from that. Takar seemed even more dangerous than Somra in her most ferocious mood swings, except he was like that all the time. Brendon didn't think he'd ever seen a genuine smile on the pilot's face.

Takar was an enigma. That was the best word the mage could think of. So was Fearon. They both seemed to keep secrets, and as two enigmas, one was always trying to pry the truth from the other. Such a thing always deteriorated into a fight.

At least on this ship.

Brendon sighed and slumped down onto the bridge's built in couch. It had never been the most comfortable thing-thinly padded, blockily rectangular. The bridge was generally ragtag, with glowing circuits showing in several spots by the controls, several handmade additions, and bent pipes. It reflected the age of the Strikeflier-the small airship carrier would be celebrating it's 212 th anniversary soon.

The ship was the only thing their pilot seemed to trust. He was remarkably dedicated to it. No one minded such vigilance when it came to maintenance. The Strikeflier was infamous and famous for several reasons-being the fastest airship on record, even now, and packing a unusual amount of firepower for being so small.

Then, of course, it had gone more than two centuries strong. The scholarly side of Brendon had always been fascinated by that.

Takar shut the vents, one on each side of the bridge door. He began to throw tools loosely into his toolbox. "What are you back here for? The books bore you already?"

Brendon shook his head and threw his hands into the air. "No! I'd never get tired of those. But, well…" Groaning, Brendon decided to confess. "Lehvahk took my share of the money. I think he stole it from me when I was reading…" he finished with a guilty sigh.

The pilot didn't react too much at first. He froze for several moments, then threw his tools back into storage with an audible clang.

The mage drew back with a slight flinch as Takar looked over his shoulder at him. The red eyes under the pilot's long bangs were blazing with anger and clear annoyance. "Why in the _Seven Hells_ would you let your guard down around that bonehead?"

Brendon grimaced. He'd been mentally preparing for this. "Well, it's not like Lehvahk was supposed to be with me. I never imaged he could slip away from Somra or Fearon...especially not both of them."

Takar grunted, seeming to except the explanation. "Slippery little bastard loves to mess with us. Only one place he could have gone now."

Uncomfortably Brendon leaned away from Takar. His tone of voice had shifted to a lower, darker baritone. Standing and locking the access panel, Takar slowly paced in Brendon's direction.

He thought of standing up. But by then Takar had braced one hand on the back of the couch, above Brendon's own bony shoulder. He'd leaned close enough so that there was only a scant three inches between their noses.

Despite all that was logical in him, Brendon felt threatened by the look of dark humor in Takar's eyes. It was obvious that on some sadistic level, he was finding the whole thing pretty funny.

The pilot continued to talk. "He'd have gone to gamble. Most of our money-gone after his frivolous activities. And guess whose fault it will be."

Brendon gulped. "Mine?"

Abruptly Takar withdrew. He crossed his arms, his eyes hidden behind his hair again. The only way to read any emotion was Takar's posture. It looked somewhere between regretful and apologetic, although Brendon had absolutely no way to be sure. "I'd start devising what you'll say when the entire disaster is over."

Brendon groaned. The mage didn't like being blamed for things, no one did. But for the mage, the extra pressure tended to weigh him down more than necessary. It was more guilt to carry, even if only for a few days.

"Yeah...thanks for the pep talk."

The bridge door hissed open and closed, and Brendon was alone save for Scout. He sighed. Yep. Takar had definitely not lifted his spirits at all. He'd bogged them down with his odd and depressing antics-as Brendon had expected.

At least he had Scout. He smiled wanly as the visorak leaped up next to him. Then he began to pet the fire red creature, all the while trying to think of ways to let his error come across as less disastrous-and less embarrassing.

_XxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxX_

Lehvahk was having the time of his life. The brown furred blizzarian had darted from slot machine to slot machine in the manner of a ping pong ball for the first few minutes, eagerly trying his luck. So far he had lost more money than gained, but he didn't care. The sharpshooter knew he never cold have gotten actual permission to come here and have some real fun. So the only real solution had been to slip the money away from Brendon. Just being in the Inn, wonderful architecture and aesthetics in all, made it worth it.

The strategist mage could be very oblivious to the world when around books. It had to come from being the nerdy time.

Then he came across a door. Lehvahk instantly stopped in place, leaning sideways to peer in. The brown furred Blizzarian's blue eyes brightened when he saw the polished game tables, laid out in a gorgeous room.

The ceiling was higher and longer than any other room he'd ever seen, at least forty feet high. Lehvahk could only guess the length-possibly something like sixty yards. Gold and silver star patterns inlaid the ceiling, rich brown beams supporting the indigo walls and lighter ceiling. The whole thing complimented the tables in a way that tempted the sniper even more.

He rubbed his hands together. Lehvahk dusted off his white shirt with the green skimmer logo, then waltzed in, hoping to look confident and sophisticated. He continued until he spotted a likely table.

The occupants looked fairly easy to trick to him. A hawktor, wiry and skinny like the desert trees outside, was one. The bird man was raking his sharp nails through his thin hair and the rangy crest of feathers atop his head. A grumpy looking felisar snarled, throwing down his cards. He said something illegible to the leader, a big varon with eyes of flint and a gray complexion. The varon flipped his greasy hair and snarled back with a rude gesture. The felisar's tail lashed, his ears flattening. The entire group was dressed in baggy, stained clothes and bore matching tattoos.

Any sane person would have seen that if the trio was tricked, it could end very badly for them when said trio found out. But Lehvahk didn't usually have a knack for being sensible, and he made no secret of it. The sharpshooter strutted up to the table, completely immune to the stares of the occupants-killer stares that should have warned him off.

Instead Lehvahk beamed at them, slapping his hands on the game table. "Who's ready to play?"

In his pocket he could feel the pack of cards. He was expert at this.

"Go fish," the hawktor muttered.

"You shouldn't have told him that, Lemming!"

"Well too bad, it's out!" Lemming cackled loudly. He fell backward off his chair and continued laughing on the floor. "Hehe! You're awful at keeping secrets, Cresy. So awful, even I could beat you at it!"

"Name's Crewfy, dolt!" the stone gray varon slammed his fist against the table. The cards shuddered in the aftermath of the miniature earthquake. "GET IT IN YOUR DAMNED HEAD, OR-"

"Well then, guess it's settled." Without further ado Lehvahk delivered himself into a chair, sniggering at the gray varon's name. Crewfy, seriously? What kind of name was that?

Lehvahk figured the dude's mom had been either very intoxicated or just crazy to name him that.

"_Ai_, who said you could invite yourself in?" the felisar hissed. His ragged fur was matted on one side of his face, and the glaring yellow eyes were more than a little bloodshot. "This is our game."

"One extra player adds to the fun, right?" the words rolled of the tongue like quicksilver. Congratulating himself for his wit, Lehvahk snatched himself a new pile of cards.

The first part of the game went much as he had planned it. The marksman would simply substitute a unfavorable card in a lightning quick grab from his pocket.

Yes, it was all going nicely. Until Scraggly Fur (Lehvahk had no better name for the felisar, since he hadn't heard his name mentioned) noticed his card trick.

"Now, now." Scraggly Fur rose slowly, grinning wide enough to show all his teeth. Lehvahk froze in place, realizing too late he hadn't hidden his bait and switch well enough.

Crewfy's eyes glowed with ghostly light. He rose until he was staring down at the now quivering sharpshooter.

No, Lehvahk just felt cold in here. He didn't tremble. That was a little kid thing to do. He kept telling himself that, even with the little smidgen of logic saying he couldn't be cold in a desert city casino.

He did the reasonable thing. Lehvahk made a fast as hell, calm retreat. His cards scattered behind him as he went, along with most of his money. He tossed a bottle of machine grease over his shoulder as he went. The liquid spilled into Crewfy's eyes as he lunged. The big varon ran into the table and crashed down atop it, fumbling to get up.

"GET BACK HERE!"

The bellow was enough to cut through the loud din of the Champion Inn. Then people began to yell and scatter as the two henchman tore through, their boss following with a face painting of machine grease.

The grease was a 'gift' so graciously donated by Takar. Or rather, Lehvahk had politely borrowed it. So what if the grouchy helmsman didn't know?

Lehvahk pushed and shoved as he ran. He charged into a group of tittering female humans, all wearing pink boas. Feathers flew everywhere along with purses, but Lehvahk was much more concerned with staying alive. He ran on with a few pink feathers sticking out from his hair. He heard a second commotion as Scraggly Fur, Lemming, and Crewfy passed the now very offended ladies.

Lured by the promise of sunlight, Lehvahk didn't realize where he was running until he found himself on a flat expanse of sand. A blast of fire and a opposing bolt of light made him yelp and run awkwardly through a cloud of steam. He realized belatedly that he had stumbled into a the middle of a battle between two people, a shaman and a druid respectively. Both parties drew up short at the unexpected presence of a fifteen year old blizzarian suddenly running into the middle of their fight.

Lehvahk made it to the edge amid the awkward silence. Then he hopped the low wall surrounding the arena and made a dash for a door marked, 'alley exit. Workers only.'

Desperate times called for desperate measures. Half hoping he had thrown his pursuers off, Lehvahk glanced over his shoulder.

Not so. His pursuers had clearly known were they were going better than he had. They had run around the edge of the arena, avoiding the battle completely. Roars rang out and attacks shot this way and that as the battle resumed. The sharpshooter paled at the sight of the approaching thugs and tried the doorknob.

It wouldn't open. Frantically Lehvahk did the only thing he could think of. He shot the lock with his handgun and barged through it.

Given better circumstances, he'd have picked the lock. But he was running for his life and the thugs had already gotten a mere ten feet away. One tiny handgun-small enough for his pocket-wasn't enough.

The dingy Rithmere alley had only three ways of escape-the long run to either the right or left end, or the single rickety fire escape.

Fire escape it was. There wasn't any time to get to either end of the alley, as proven by the pounding of feet coming closer.

Lehvahk had just made it up to the first landing of the fire escape when the door burst open a second time. A rush of air heralded the arrival of Lemming. The hawktor jumped and made a messy landing on the rail of the fire escape, causing Lehvahk to yelp and jump back, handgun already out.

Lemming already had a knife out. His sneering grin showed all the bird man's yellowed teeth. He inched toward the sharpshooter, a hungry look in his eye.

Lehvahk turned the handgun and banged Lemming on the head with the hilt. He just managed to keep his arm from being sliced open and jumped, grabbing the next landing. He hauled himself onto it just before Crewfy's fist closed around his leg.

Breathing hard, Lehvahk got to his feet. He could already see Lemming bracing to jump. His heart beat fast with terror.

Then a seeming miracle occurred. Lemming jerked with a howl, clutching his upper arm and a green blue blur shot past him. The attacker landed nimbly, whirling and catching Crewfy under the chin with a kick. A second lash sent him tumbling backward into a pile of old recycling.

Lehvahk felt like singing. The newcomer was Fearon, black hair long as ever and narrowed eyes glaring. One sword was out, the red tinge of blood on the serrated edge. He was radiating the aura that even Lehvahk shrunk from-a cold and ruthless one, like Fearon had become a living, deadly blizzard.

Lemming was still squawking and cursing. Dancing on the rail, he lunged at Fearon. The swordsman didn't even look behind him as he thrust a elbow back, hitting Lemming in the collarbone. In one swift grab he had yanked the dagger from the hawktor's hand. Then, with a almost casual ease, he nudged Lemming off the side of the fire escape.

There was a thud and even more cursing. Peering tentatively down, Lehvahk cracked up laughing at the sight of Lemming and Straggly Fur hopelessly tangled up on the dirty concrete of the alley.

"You little sword carrying b-" it was Crewfy again. And he sounded even angrier than when he'd first been cheated. Lehvahk wasn't entirely sure that was a good thing.

"Bastard? Yeah, you may well call me that." Fearon's tone was remarkably flat. "But you're one too, even more than me. And guess what, _bastaredei_?"

Fearon leaped down from the fire escape. He landed catlike, blade out to one side, and studied Crewfy with his orange-yellow eyes. "Hurting my friends is a very bad idea. Like...if you keep trying, a 'pay for it with blood,' kind of bad idea."

Crewfy seemed to be trembling. Lehvahk squinted down at him. He didn't just seem to be trembling-he was trembling. And the terrified anger in the big gray varon's twisted expression sealed the deal.

"F-fine," the gray varon grated out. "But I'll just fight you instead. I'm not scared of a little shrimp."

Crewfy drew his fist back.

Fearon only spoke three slow words I response. "You should be."

The cold tone was practically the embodiment of winter. The temperature in the muggy alley seemed to drop forty degrees. Crewfy didn't seem to notice.

He just continued to charge, face twisted in a scowl of mixed fear and anger.

Fearon banished all hampering thoughts from his mind. He focused solely on the vulnerable spots on his target. It didn't matter that he was bigger-Fearon was faster.

The swordsman dodged Crewfy's fist fast enough to become a streak of black, gray and blue-green. The thug's blow slammed into the fire escape rail, bending it enough to shatter the old iron. By that time Fearon had already made his move, drawing his sword and making a line of scarlet across Crewfy's chest.

The big varon drew up short in astonishment. He went slightly pale at the graze, shallow but bleeding steadily. "You-you-"

"I could have killed you. All it would have taken was a few more inches. And I have plenty of ways to make my strikes stronger through magic." Fearon gazed steadily back at the thug's terrified eyes, sword leaning on his shoulder. He knew very well he was in control of this situation now, even more than he had been a moment ago. He was aware, too, that both of Crewfy's lackeys were watching the proceedings from below, and Lehvahk from above. "I can go in there and find the person who runs the Champion Inn, and tell him you nearly strangled someone just because he upset you a little by cheating at cards."

Crewfy inched in the direction of the ladder. "Uh...ah uh. I think...no way am I staying near you! C'mon, boys, lets get away from this wackjob little bastard!"

Just like that Crewfy had rushed past him. He paused briefly at the entrance to the alley, and shouted back a seemingly random comment. As meaningless as it seemed, the words and tone sent shivers up the swordsman's spine. "By the way, you have quite the interesting shadow, Redskye."

The teenage varon felt his heart skip. How had the stranger known his last name?

And were his eyes turning silver?

Before Fearon could be sure of anything, the group of thugs bolted. Fearon stayed perfectly still, seeing them vanish with uncanny speed into the crowd and pondering why a seemingly normal being would have silver eyes...reminiscent of the gods.

With a grin Lehvahk scrambled back down the ladder to stand beside him. Fearon snapped out of his stupor and yanked Lehvahk back out of the alley and down to his skimmer by the arm. He didn't particularly want to hear any excuses just yet. He could sense Lehvahk was unnerved by his silence, but that was fine. It would help in making him realize his mistake.

Fearon twisted the skimmer handlebars of the biplane motorcycle hybrid vehicle. The engine roared as he shot out of the alley, launching the skimmer into flight mode.

Once they were soaring above the streets past the tall buildings, Lehvahk did speak. "Hehe...thanks for getting me out of trouble."

"Who says you aren't still in trouble?" Fearon replied caustically. From the stricken gulp behind him, it seemed the message had at least partially gotten through.

He heard Lehvahk grumble. Instead of bothering to talk more, Fearon let his mind wander some. Rithmere had provided him with some strange occurrences-the shop had been a stroke of luck, but the shadow, the silver eyed thugs-they didn't sit well with the leader. Somehow, he felt the things were going to come back at him.

And Fearon hated not being sure of how or when.


	3. Broke and for Hire

Disclaimer- I do not own Storm Hawks, Deltora Quest, or any other copyrighted material.

CHAPTER 3

**BROKE AND FOR HIRE**

**term guide-**

_Cear Draconis-an inescapable prison located in the remote tundra of Morius, one of the planet's most inhospitable lands and nations. Only the most notorious are sentenced there, and are treated to torture on a daily basis._

_Quinto-Amihawkian money, accepted as legal tender globally._

"How the hell did you lose so much of our money!?"

The shout sent desert buzzards squawking away from where they had been basking in the sun. It was a fair assumption many other creatures had fled the area too at the sound of Somra's rage.

"Ah...I guess I spilled a lot of it accidentally when I ran-I mean, strategically retreated." Lehvahk offered a smile, which unfortunately doubtless looked sheepish despite his best efforts.

Somra didn't appear very impressed. She still looked exactly like she wanted to kill him and flay him alive. It wouldn't surprise Lehvahk if she had skinning knifes hidden in her vest.

"In other words, bastard, you ran like a little brat and didn't care what you left behind," Takar growled the words from the helm. He crossed both arms and glared at Lehvahk from under his shaggy mane. "Thanks a lot about that."

Lehvahk spluttered in outrage, then squeaked in terror as Somra raised a fist threateningly. "Enough," Fearon rubbed his temples, already feeling a headache growing. Adding it to his sighting of the weird shadow earlier, Fearon was starting to become uncertain whether he was just tired or going mad.

His usual health conditions had included weariness and headaches often enough. Fearon had gotten used to living with those side effects, caused by his decision long ago-but since glimpsing the shadow in the alley, they only seemed to be intensifying.

Whatever. They had bigger problems. "Somra, he made a mistake, but that doesn't mean you need to beat the life outa him. We need ideas, people."

The bridge filled with a brief silence. There was a brief rustle of paper as Somra yanked a piece of paper from her pocket. "Maybe this'll help," she grumbled.

Fearon moved closer, while Brendon beat him to it. He smoothed out the paper on the metal table, then gaped at it.

"What?" Fearon peered over Brendon's shoulder. His own eyes widened at the sight of the big number at the bottom-designated as money by the very prominent _quinto_ sign.

"Well then..." Fearon quickly read the rest of the poster. "A wanted poster. This'll be about right for our talents, don't you think?"

"Well, it does involve a beat down. Laying it on that sucker seems fun to me," Somra grinned and cracked her knuckles.

"Sure. You little fools just love going out and nearly getting all of us killed." Takar growled dryly.

"And what, you aren't coming with us?" Fearon's voice unintentionally lifted. "So you'll stay behind and sulk?"

"I never said that, blade swinging fool!"

"Sure what it sounded like to me, techno recluse!"

"You're both missing the point!"

Fearon flinched as Somra's sharp words broke the fight up. A brief flash of guilt was all he felt. With a growl he stopped glaring at Takar and turned away. Somehow Takar always managed to antagonize him and vise versa. Both of them wanted to know each other's secret pasts, but neither was telling. Fearon wasn't sure if it was due to them feeling true trust couldn't be achieved till then, or if they wanted to help each other but were just too scared to admit anything.

"Anyhow," Brendon broke the silence, his cheer sounding slightly forced. "Where would we even start with finding this..."

"Ac-Acry-something or other, you mean?" Lehvahk was turning the paper left and right, squinting at it. "How do you say this dude's name?"

"It's Fracastian. 'Acryonoi Gavriino, designated to be practicing dark shamanism. Convicted for the crime of practicing dark magics,'" Brendon read, after grabbing the wanted poster from Lehvahk. "This guy's already done some pretty hell bent stuff, worthy of Cear Draconis*. It's no wonder his likeness has been sent all over."

"The poster says he's been spotted in the Shifting Sands," Somra added. Despite trying to sound casual, a light thrill of fear could be detected in her tone.

"There?" Brendon seemed to get paler. "It can't…oh, it does-"

"Exactly. Where would he be in that desert, aye?"

In her savage cheer, Somra had invoked a key question. "Well. There are oases around the edges. It could be a good start." Brendon didn't sound very hopeful. It didn't make Fearon eager about what he would say next. "But the word should have reached the towns in them about this by now, whether it's by internet, newspaper...passerby."

"People live out there?" Lehvahk said blankly. "Why?"

"Rithmere natives are weirdly traditional sometimes," Takar grumbled. "They seem to like living out in the baking sun, right by a deadly desert."

Somra laughed. "And they've always sounded fun to me. All rough and tumble, and such."

"In other words, everyone living in those oasis towns will seem crazy," Brendon put in.

Fearon rubbed the back of his neck. "Maybe this Acryonoi guy is there, then. Crazy places can hide a lot of loons."

"And what if he isn't? Any other brilliant ideas?" Takar sounded heavily sarcastic.

"Then we search more," Brendon responded, sounding uncertain even though he clearly tried not to.

"Anywhere else he could be?" Fearon was starting to pace now. He didn't like it when the target was so evasive. Far from enjoying the challenge, he found it tedious.

"There's the Hive."

Brendon's quiet response made Fearon unintentionally halt as the Hive's infamous reputation weaved its way into his mind. The tales he'd heard all his life about the malevolent force that controlled everything in the Shifting Sands-beyond the oases at least-had been an invoker of childhood fears.

The only way to travel over the desert was by air. Any other way was deemed insane, for uncountable dangers, environmental and bestial.

"He can't possibly be sheltering out there." Fearon knew he didn't sound convincing. His voice was tremulous, and Somra was giving him an amused look while Takar was scowling anew. "The Hive would kill him."

"Shamans control the elements, right? Maybe he could fend off a bunch of oversized bees." Lehvahk airily remarked from where he was lounging on the bridge couch.

"The Hive is historically chronicled as being very clever, powerful, and sustaining large numbers," Brendon retorted fiercely. "It hasn't been a major threat so far because the Hive's never left the Shifting Sands. Ignorance is dangerous here, Lehvahk."

Lehavhk yawned. "Sure."

Brendon glared at him. Somra laughed. "Ha, sure, dimwit. See if you're still saying that when the Hive comes after you."

"That doesn't matter right now," Fearon interjected. "If we do need to go further out, that's when we worry about it."

The desolate red sands were already in Fearon's mind's eye. He suppressed a shiver when the old legends surfaced from his memories again.

"Our best starting point is the oases."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

The Strikeflier's shadow rippled over the rocky terrain and scraggly trees. Soon a high rock wall was visible in the distance, growing ever closer courtesy of the Strikeflier's swift speed. Beyond it was the Shifting Sands.

A death trap, most certainly. It was beyond Takar why people would want to live there. Either they were all completely and utterly stupid, or they were just like the others aboard the Strikeflier-overconfident bastards.

Storming a bounty hunter keep was dangerous, but not as dangerous as this. Takar had barged in himself, guns blazing, to save them at Teresal Island. Even though his feelings about his teammates were uncertain and scrambled, one thing he was certain of was that he didn't want to lose them.

He still wasn't sure why. Takar was always wavering between trusting his colleagues as friends or family, or just seeing them on the neutral ground of teammates and nothing more. It was a constant enigma he never seemed free from. Sometimes he'd let things relating to his inner traumas slip, and had to hastily cover them up again to keep from being questioned further.

His problems were his problems. He didn't want anyone else involved. It made him too uncomfortable, and even vulnerable. Trust wasn't a concept Takar believed in. Not when the society he'd spent his childhood in had done its best to deal Takar pain and shun him.

However, for better or worse, the others had decided on their course of action. And Takar had to go with them, for the sake of keeping the only people he truly cared about alive. He couldn't handle the thought of more guilt on his conscience, more loss weighing down his soul and scarring his mind.

The wall passed below them. A large steel sign flashed by, pinned to the wall, but too far away to make out the writing on them.

"What was that? A warning sign?"

Takar snorted with mock surprise. "A warning sign? Gods, imagine that being placed before a death trap."

Lehvahk took his sarcastic response with ease, and a kind of increased confidence that Takar hadn't seen before tonight. "Death trap, so on, da da da. That's what everyone says about Teresal."

"And we barely lived through that, dumbass," Takar grumbled. "We didn't even win all that much at the end." His irritation was reaching sky high heights.

"Sure. We can live through some stinkin desert if we lived through a killer island."

"Whatever. Let's just go down there and talk to the sand savages."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

The small oasis towns, interlocked by a series of covered roads, were definitely a pure example of the local, traditional culture, almost like the group had gone back in time. Colorful tents mingled with small sandstone buildings, tarps fluttered above the streets, and the majority of the people rambled about in face paints of varying colors. Races of all kinds were well represented.

For some, the experience could be considered fun and interesting. For Takar, it was neither. The place was too hot, too sandy, and generally too crowded. The pilot felt ridiculously hemmed in, trying to take up as little space as possible. He partly knew that he shouldn't have any reason to be claustrophobic-people weren't coming within three feet of him-but he couldn't help it.

"Look at them," He grumbled. "Scrambling around out here. Their loons, every one one."

Then again, who was he calling loons? Takar laughed inwardly. He had voices in his head. He knew he was a mental wreck. It was entirely possible that the desert people were more sane than him...

"Don't be so harsh, would you?" Brendon was excitedly snapping pictures on his phone. "This place is almost like a throwback to ancient Deltora. It's fascinating."

"Only to you."

"He has a bit of a point." Fearon shrugged, brushing his hair back. "There aren't many places like this anymore."

"Exactly," Brendon agreed ecstatically. "Amihawk itself began twenty billion years ago. Up until fourteen billion, this is probably what Rithmere looked like at it's start."

"Weren't there people in tents on the city outskirts today?"

"Yes. More examples of culture."

"Good gods, you get excited about the strangest things," Takar growled. He scuffed the ground with a sandaled foot. The heat had forced him to abandon his boots, and trade his pants for a pair of ragged shorts. He had still found no opening to wear his coat, and it didn't make him happy. He felt much more protected in his normal garb. Less cloth meant less between others and his skin. And the pilot didn't want anyone touching his skin, especially his back.

Takar tensed as Lehvahk threw an arm around his shoulders, or tried to-the pilot was two feet taller than the brown blizzarian. "Oh, come on. You get excited over ships and tech, don't you? That bores the rest of us, but we never bother you about it."

Unable to take the physical contact any longer, Takar roughly shoved the sharpshooter away. Lehvahk stumbled, grumpily mumbling. "Be a little rougher, why don't you?"

"I don't talk so damn much when I'm interested in something." Frustrated, Takar turned away from the others, crossing his arms. The others probably didn't think much more of him after that, but he hadn't been able to think of a better way to get Lehvahk's hand away.

The pilot let his shoulders slump. He knew well enough he wasn't likeable-he'd only heard that said behind his back millions of times, or just sensed it. Takar let out a humorless snort. Why did they even want a wreck like him around?

Bitterly he wondered if they didn't, secretly. No ever had, after all. And it wasn't like they complimented him much for maintaining the Strikeflier, or being a genius with tech and machinery. Or they might have, but he had simply never believed them.

"Well, anyhow, here we are in the desert land." It was Fearon, talking to Brendon, if he had to guess. Takar hunched his shoulders. He still didn't feel like turning around...

"You mean the savage land. There's nothing else this place can be called."

"The rest of the world would say the same about Deltora as a whole, Takar."

Takar tilted his head up, looking at the pale blue sky. "Let them think what they want."

"We start the way we agreed." It was Fearon, his tone in what was called, 'business mode.' "We comb the streets, ask about Acryonoi-"

"Uh, guys?" Takar looked over his shoulder, confused by Lehvahk's tentative tone of voice. "I think we lost someone..."

Everyone looked around in confusion. Takar felt a million curses welling up. Somehow Somra had slipped away from them-even from him. The pilot felt he should have heard her run off, but then there was the sand to think about. That, and the large amount of people-and the plain fact that his nerves were more of a mess than usual.

"We have to find her." Fearon sounded remarkably protective. He started forward, only to have Lehvahk quip, "Oh, you definitely love her."

"Don't tempt me to hurt you." Sounding unusually flustered, Fearon began to walk briskly away. Lehvahk smiled knowingly. Brendon sighed, a slight smile growing. Takar just ignored it. They had a awol teammate to find.

As it turned out, tracking Somra was ease in itself. The lights and sounds of a fight were apparent to the west-and it was common knowledge that is was what Somra liked the most.

By the time the group got there, it was to see Somra's familiar figure facing a unfamiliar, dark skinned human man, marked with black tattoos. Both were gripped in the abandon of combat, Somra dodging and breaking manifestations of sand, continually summoned by the Mere tribe combatant.

"There she is!" Fearon's shout contained a vast relief. Takar allowed a small, tight smile of amusement to slip into place. Even him, with inept social skills, knew the signs of obvious love.

"What should we do?" Lehvahk spoke the words out of his winded lungs. "Is she in danger?"

Fearon's eyes lit up. The Sky Knight lunged, only to be brought up short by Brendon's thrown out arm.

"Why would you _stop_ me?" the leader hissed out through his grit teeth.

"Why would _you_ stop the fight?" one of the bystanders, a thin human man with a camera, spoke up, clearly having overheard. "This is a _mar'orak_."

Fearon stood straighter and allowed his shoulders to loosen, his eyes becoming placid with realization. "I see. Never mind."

"I don't," Lehvahk remarked in clear confusion.

"How can you possibly not know? Haven't you lived here long enough?" Fearon sounded astounded. Takar was not at all surprised. Lehvahk was infamous in his book for not knowing things.

Eyes still fixed on the fight, the pilot couldn't resist a comment. "Your ignorance is incredible, bonehead."

"Mar'orak means, 'ritual battle,' in Deltoran," Brendon gestured at the fight before them. "A mutual test of skill. It was in the time before Adin people could die in these. That was outlawed when Deltora was untied into a nation under his rule."

Lehvahk rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. "Huh, learn something new every day."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

By now, Somra had lost herself in the fast paced battle. Her Zephyr's Speed enhancement still active, she'd just avoided a falling rain of sand arrows. "You're going down!"

Neffar, her opponent, grinned. "Don't get to angry. You may end up blind." The sand bow collapsed, sediment streaming finely through his fingers. He threw both hands forward and sand rushed forth, taking on the general shape of a sword.

Somra dodged and swiveled. The sword broke apart into sand grains again. Catching a blur of brown, she leaped. The sand grains had halted, coalesced, then arched back to strike at where she'd been standing.

"Enhancement-Zephyr's Speed!" Somra felt instantly lighter on her feet. She darted forward at blinding speeds, wind rushing past in an elating stream.

She used the increased speed to avoid sand spears, directed at her by Neffar. The instant she approached, he reacted fast.

"Sand Wall!"

Sand whipped itself into a high barrier. It began to curl inward like an ocean wave, spiky shapes flowing across it as it went-images of sandbeasts, the insectoid monsters trying to unnerve the caster's foe. Somra only felt a brief moment of panic before she regained her senses. Passing her spear into her other hand, she drew a rune in the air, casting another enhancement.

"Enhancement-Black Dragon! Zephyr's Speed!"

She was off the second the chained casts took effect. Somra drove her spear forward with a shout of defiance. The sand wall only offered a few tense seconds before breaking to Somra's currently enforced strength. She broke through, some of the sand raking across her arms, temporarily marked with enhancement runes. Landing with a thud on the other side, Neffar found her spear at his neck.

The wiry man cracked a smile. His runes disappeared, the sand dispersing in the wind. "Had this been the ancient times, I would be dead. You were impressive."

"Doubtless," Somra replied, a carnivorous smile on her lips. The rush of adrenaline was still fresh, and a tingle of disappointment was present. She would have liked the battle to last longer. But it was done now, with the decided victor-her. "And yeah, I know I'm good." She glared at Neffar as she withdrew her spear. "Anger on the battlefield completes me-doesn't blind me." She smiled a fang filled grin.

"Hell yeah, Somra!"

Somra turned at Lehvahk's shout, tilting her chin proudly. To her confusion, she saw Lehvahk whisper something to Fearon. He narrowed his eyes and pulled away, hissing something back. Then the leader's eyes locked on Neffar. "Are you leader of this place?"

Neffar smiled wryly. "In a fashion."

"We want to know something," Fearon started, tone low and measured. He turned slightly to the side and put his hands in his pockets, while giving Neffar a sideways look that radiated purpose. "There's a corrupt shaman running around. Goes by the name Acryonoi Graviino. If he's here," the leader's tone hardened. "You're telling us. Being in charge here means you know everyone, right?"

Neffar didn't seem bothered. He idly stirred the sand with the toe of a ragged sandal. The tanned human raked his fingers through his hair after replacing his hat. The narrowed eyes under them sent their own challenge-and a deliberate taunt.

Fearon grit his teeth. The bastard was clearly trying to set him off, while simultaneously saying, 'just try to make me talk.'

Fearon took a deep breath and let it out. "Look, we'll be out of your village once you tell us, with honesty, if Acryonoi's here."

"Well, that certainly hastens my decision."

"And what is your decision?" Fearon's clipped tone slipped out before he could help it.

"That I'll tell you what you want to know. There has been no one of that name living here. It's another story when it comes to outside denizens."

"Meaning?" Fearon replied tauntly. "Explain."

"I am going to tell you the honest truth. It's your choice if you want to believe me or not."

Fearon blinked, scrutinizing the stonecast face before him. Far as he could tell, there was no lie here-although it was possible he was being fooled. Given his skill at seeing past lies, though…so far, it seemed a legit confession.

Neffar dusted his clothes of-taking his time-and then continued his sentence in the same, calm dignified tone as before. "There has been a renegade shaman launching attacks on us. They stopped..." Neffar paused, a shadow overtaking his features. "When they managed to take from us one of the Rithmere Territory's oldest weapons. It was the savior of the Lapis Lazuli tribe as a whole, back in the ancient days."

Savior?" Fearon echoed, slightly baffled. "How?"

Neffar's mouth became a crescent of white teeth. He leaned closer to Fearon, as if the varon teen was his only audience. "Imagine...a blade of black obsidian, the very stuff the Hive has built their home out of for eons. Permanently marked with traces of their power. The greatest hero of this region was the one to brave the desert, chip the stone from the Hive's very spire, and make it here alive...to forge it into the Ebon Nightslayer."

"And just how is that so special?" Takar's blunt question, crossed arms and scowl showed that he was doubtful of the story.

Fearon found that where he would have normally reacted to the helmsman's contempt and indifference, he felt oddly numb instead. Neffar winked at him knowingly, even as Fearon tried to get out of his stupor.

_Ebon Nightslayer. Ebon Nightslayer. _The name raced through his mind again and again on an overwhelming wave of importance.

"To answer your ignorant question.."

"Ignorant?! I'm not ignorant, you little-"

"The Ebon Nightslayer holds power over the Hive, coming from the stone that makes their home. If not for it, the Lapiz Lazuli Territory would have been overrun by the Hive. This land of good furtune would have been ruined. The Hive's boundaries were set by that weapon."

Takar had clenched his fists in fury, and growled through gritted teeth. "A rocky expanse of nothing is no realm of luck, you dastardly little know it all. And no one calls me stupid. Willing to go a round two-"

"Hold on, Takar," Brendon, ever the attempted pacifist, tried to intervene. "Every tribe has their legends, and most if not all are based on fact. If this thing was stolen, it can only be that it's important..."

"A sword made of obsidian?" Somra muttered. "I should like to study that."

Lehvahk cocked his head. "Obsidian's black glass, right? How tough can it be?"

Somra gasped exaggeratedly. "You actually know something? The world's about to end!"

"Hey!"

"We're leaving. Now."

Fearon could feel eyes on him as a result of the abrupt announcement, but he had been filled with a sense of urgency that wasn't easily dislodged. And Brendon was, of course, right that all of Deltora's traditional legends tended to be frighteningly real. It held true for the vast majority of Amihawkian cultures and history as a whole.

"If this obsidian sword can control the Hive, this guy has a army." Fearon stood up straighter, glancing up at the sky. It was still bright, but the sun was ducking into the afternoon hours. "We have no time to waste now. We find the Hive, then figure out how to get into it. We get that sword back, even if we have to kill the shaman to do it."

Takar gave him a disgruntled look. Fearon matched it with a cold glare. Takar growled back, then turned a stomped back along the way they'd come.

Fearon paused, momentarily uncertain about whether he should just follow his friends or thank Neffar. On a sudden impulse, he turned and looked back.

Fearon's pulse seemed to stop. The man was gone. And the frozen onlookers had started a new fight, like the recent scene hadn't happened. Either they had short memories, or maybe the last few minutes really _hadn't_ happened.

"You have the look of one who has seen Death."

Fearon whipped around again. Neffar had reappeared, standing off to the side of the road a few yards ahead. His hat hung idly from his hand.

The swordsman squinted at the desert dweller's eyes. He thought he could see a steady tint of silver filtering in, like with Crewfy in the alley-but even more pure. The same sheen that, historically, had always belonged to the eyes of the gods.

He stared at Neffar in both awe and, although he really didn't want to admit it, fear. "What are you?" he hissed.

Neffar smiled languidly. "I can assure you I am Deltoran. And..partly human. But exactly what I am doesn't concern you."

Fearon glanced further up the road. None of his teammates seemed to have noticed he wasn't following yet. Similarly, everything sounded muted and the desert dwellers didn't seem to be paying them mind either.

It was making him nervous. Too many things Fearon couldn't explain were happening. "Are you the shadow that was following me? Earlier, in Rithmere?"

The unknown entity before him chuckled. "No, no. But you'll find out who it is. There is a trial waiting for you out in the desert, before you reach the Hive. I am warning you to prepare yourself, mentally and physically. Try your best to master Lightning and Fire-I know you've been trying for some time. God Specific spells are raw power-a very tempting possibility. The Battle God's signature spell, especially, doesn't come easily."

"How the hell do you know that?" Fearon was suddenly aware that his scales were dotted with a cold sweat.

"I can see everything in your mind. And you still haven't answered my first question. Have you seen Death, and returned to the world of the living...from the realm of gods and spirits? Did you nearly die...but manage to claw your way back by accepting the challenge of the Edolith?"

Fearon's breath stuttered in his chest. Memories flashed through his head- a foggy courtyard, a bony dragon that wasn't a dragon, but a god, looming over him, seeing the god's face become more and more skeletal the closer he came to relinquishing life forever. The pain and despair washed over him anew, the link with his earthly body fading all the while, the cavernous face of the Edolith looming-

Viciously he stomped the memories out. The dark and misty spirit court and rocky incorporeal grounds of the Edolith faded back into the depths of Fearon's mind. He took a series of gasping breaths and hacked out an answer. "I saw Scorothos, yeah. And I did come back. But I'm not telling you anything else." Breath recovered, Fearon stood straight again, glaring at Neffar. His eyes were completely silver now, twin metal disks. "I get your warning. Now let me free of whatever side realm you've pulled me into."

The man's shoulder's rose in a slight shrug. "Certainly. But eventually, you will be grateful to me, Redskye."

He snapped his fingers. And Fearon found himself blinking in real sunlight again, just a step behind his friends-who seemed not to have noticed he'd been gone. Quickly Fearon fell back into step with them, shoving the encounter to the back of his mind.

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Neffar's form flickered, like a mirage. He replaced his hat on his indistinct form and spoke to seemingly nothing.

"Lord. I suppose you are wondering what just happened? After all..."

"After all, it wasn't on my orders, spirit," a voice rumbled from nearby. Another pair of silver eyes blinked open not far from the mysterious desert dweller. A surge of power came along with it, one that would have made any lesser creature balk in fear and flee the battlefield in the face of such a superior presence.

"But you approve?" Neffar turned a slow pivot, until the spirit that had been the Mere tribe's leader and hero long ago was facing the god that patroned the united lands of Deltora.

Goldclaw cocked his head to one side. The Battle God's dragon form gleamed bright gold in the sunlight, yet none took notice of the patron entity of their nation. His pack of weapons clanked as the god drew himself up to full height.

"But of course. This Redskye is destined to be a legend, even more than his father. And is friends, too, will be legends one day. They are, as some call it, the new beginning of the Sky Knight order. Mercenaries and heroes at the same time, shedding the outdated rules." The god of the battlefield chuckled lowly. "I do wonder if my siblings have any potential beings of power under their wings."

"The other gods may well have such beings," Neffar replied with a certain amount of amusement. "But I suspect you will only know...with time."


	4. Night Musings

disclaimer- i do not own Storm Hawks or Deltora Quest.

CHAPTER 4

**NIGHT MUSINGS**

**definitions-**

**Edolith****-in Amihawkian tradition, the fallen consorts of the Amihawkian godly pantheon. If a mortal has a shred of life left upon entering the spirit world, they can fight the Edolith and win to return to life-however, only once, and there is always a price. The mortal must have extremely strong will. Individuals who have passed the Edolith's test have been very few.**

**Scorothos****-the God of the Dead in the Amihawkian pantheon of gods. Often described as oddly benevolent despite appearances, Scorothos can tell without fail what part of the spirit world a spirit deserves to be sentenced to. He favors those who wholeheartedly admit to their guilt.**

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Lehvahk inhaled a deep breath of air. He'd started to feel hemmed in by the walls of his room, and had resolved to go for a walk.

It was nicer than he had thought it would be. He wandered the countryside around Rithmere, keeping the ship lot in sight. They had decided unanimously to return there for a day, just to gather what they needed.

Unfortunately, thanks to his blunder, they didn't have much to spare. There would have to be rationing. Alone now, Lehvahk bitterly cursed himself for it. "I'm a complete fool. I was a coward, too. I was never that much of a coward before..."

He sighed. The arid, rocky land of the Lapiz Lazuli territory, pleasantly cool at night instead of hot, calmed him down considerably. He had to do better. Had to.

He let himself plop down on a pile of sandstone, next to a stunted, wiry roco-a desert tree famous for surviving the harsh landscape. Letting his gaze detach and fly into the starlit sky, Lehvahk reviewed what he knew about himself.

Wicked shooting skills-check.

Occasionally good jokes-check.

Cheer-check.

Past as a black market dealer-check...

The last one was the problem.

He could remember those days. Running the old firearm stall, having fled from his home in Atmos. What had begun as simply trying to get away from his controlling parents and the Cyclonian war had become more of a bloodbath, a rat race to survive. He'd never been able to fully let his guard down back then-anyone could have stabbed him in the back. The things he had been willing to do had scared the brown blizzarian-he'd killed others in fierce self-defense. It scared him that he didn't think much of it. But then, at least none of them had been innocents, so Lehvahk wasn't too bogged down.

He laughed a little. On Atmos, that kind of action would be considered highly dishonorable. To Deltorans, it was common sense. He was more Deltoran than Atmosian now.

But that had all led directly to his failings in the alley.

_I've been trying to hard not to be myself. I've been **scared** of myself, so I've tried to run away from it..._

"I can't anymore." Lehvahk's voice was low, infringed with steel. He pounded one hand with a fist. "I've done bad things, but that doesn't mean I can't use my skills, and my head, and past experience. I need to use those things to actually become a fighter worthy of this team."

The resolve hardened with each word he spoke. Lehvahk nodded, standing up and fist pumping. "I can do this, and still retain the best things about myself."

Lehvahk felt the burden lift from his chest. Tilting his head back, he stared up at the stars with renewed enthusiasm. They twinkled even brighter, reflecting his feelings.

"And I'll become the best at ranged magic, and sharpshooting, that there ever was."

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_He was eight, receiving the news. Not through the mail. In the midst of tyrannical rule, Deltora had no such functions, it was a briefly shattered nation...he had heard it from the mouths of others, known after his parents didn't come home after several months._

_No parents. He was an orphan, he was alone. He began to steal, left with no choice.._

_it drew attention. He was found. By a crime leader, a conniving, clever person, offering him shelter. He grew, he became older, he started to like stealing and even killing a few innocents-even as Deltora, free, now rebuilding, began to recoup. The nearly shattered nation, taking it's chance to become strong again._

_The spy probe. It turned out to be anything else, the invoker of the explosion. The relief supplies, the people inside, going up in flames. Simply for refusing to give up what little they had to the crime group._

_Something snaps. His mind becomes free again, the criminal flees, and after so many years, the son of the Sky Knight partially emerges. The deaths of all in the building is the trigger._

_Horror, revulsion. At himself, at everything, at the inferno of a building he had invoked._

_Anger, growing, self hate. He charges at the one who caused it, who manipulated, to kill him-to end him-_

_Pain. It became his world, the sword, cutting deep, grazing his heart. Life bleeding out, the shattering window, the air rushing by, losing himself, ready to die on the pavement. It was after all what he deserved. He should be dead,like the manipulator. It was his damn fault, or was it? Did he want to die, or live, or die-_

_A sudden presence. Another being, a living being with a heartbeat, catching him. Then blackness._

_Gray light. A court ringed by bones. A memory of legend, of stories and tradition, filters in. The Spirit Court, the Death God's court. But he couldn't be dead, couldn't._

_An echoing voice. Oddly deep. A skeletal form, a dragon, bones showing, eyes glaring. Skin translucent, wavering between solid and transparent. _Redskye. Another one, but a bit too soon, don't you think?

_He clenched his fists. Redskye. The name was familiar. Yes. It had to do with him...but why even resist? Should he die in repentance for all those lives?_

_Scorothos's eyes burn. He shakes his head. He says, _no. it is part of my duty to offer you a chance to go back. Face the Edolith, take the price...if you have the will...do you accept?

_The rocky Edolith plane. He wonders, standing there, why he had taken the challenge-it begins, he fights, tooth and nail, primal instinct urging him to live-waking up, chest on fire, each heartbeat hurting him-_

Fearon jerked awake with a choked yell. "AGGHH! Hrgh...damn.."

The teen cursed again, realizing he had been pressing a palm to his chest during the nightmare. Feeling suddenly trapped by the sheets, he thrashed and kicked them off.

Fearon sighed in relief, letting the extra breathing space help his rational mind return. His fingers rubbed at his collarbone, feeling the beginning of the long scar that marred him from there, across his torso, and down to his hip. The injury that had resulted in his near death.

The nightmare was always bad when it happened. Even after a few years of occasional occurrences, he still couldn't form immunity to it.

The whole experience was as terrifying as ever, complete with the mild depression after returning to life, and the price the Edolith had needed just as real. Fearon wistfully thought of his lost health-he was always oddly tired, plagued by aches expected of people many years older than himself, all day and night. He had mostly numbed them out-but without the medication, even with the tolerance, it got bad enough to prevent him from even moving.

Speaking of….

Fearon dragged a hand across his face and glanced at the clock, still trying to steady his shaky breathing. Ten pm. It had been nine when he had drifted off. The green blue varon sighed, dismally calculating that he had only been asleep an hour.

There was no chance he would be asleep again at all soon. Biting his lip and knowing he had time before the meds wore off, Fearon settled on the one course of action that could calm him. Or rather, the only option that made sense.

He couldn't drink. Tomorrow would be important. The last thing the team needed was a hungover leader, and Fearon knew himself well enough to realize that if he went for the alcohol he would be in bad shape the next day. Standing abruptly, he swept his swords up and yanked the door open.

In what seemed like seconds Fearon was down in the hangar. He hit the manual release button, waiting for the old doors to creak open.

Tomorrow, he'd need to be at his best. The most productive thing to do would be to master the Lightning and Fire enhancement spell...

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in the end, Takar and Fearon were more alike than either cared to admit. For the pilot was going through a similar dream state, having unwillingly nodded off. He hated it when that happened...

_The large, empty caverns, with their islands of rock, the waterfalls. Spiritual, outsiders called it...not to him, no, never. Simply the place of torture._

_Seven. A mere seven years of age. The other Kerions started to notice how unusual he was. His interest in making things, in creating. How small he was, compared to the others, already almost as tall as if they were thirteen..._

_**You were nothing, even then. **_The voice, in all it's demeaning sneer. **They could tell.**

_The shunning. The stoning. It started out small. His parents fighting, his mother protecting him, all spitting fangs and flashing claws. Then she comforted him, shielding her child from a rigid, primeval culture whom had rejected the outside world all their existence. The Caverns of Kardas, they felt, was all they needed, their whole world. The culture that only wanted to persecute him..._

_**And why wouldn't they? A weak link should be cut. **__Even caught up in memories, Takar willed the voice to stop. To silence. To not drive him steadily crazy..._

_The Day of Culling. The day were the runts were rooted out, where a parent could give their life in exchange...not that any ever had._

_But she did. His mother did. He could still remember the arrow, the thud, his anguished scream. The last words._

Live, Takar._ That was what she had told him. _I did this so you could escape this place one day, find a place for your talents. Promise me.

_He cried after that, begging her not to go. Her breath faded, the only one who had ever cared, gone. The looming shadow of the leader, his 'father,' angry that his mate had died for a runt..._

_A night of beatings. Blood. Aching, crying, trapped in a closet for days at a time, the years going on that way, until he was seventeen. Fraying his sanity, his trust._

_The year of adulthood, of trial._

_He failed the trial. He remembered, well, that the wild beast had overpowered him. He had been no match with his bare hands..._

_They whipped him. Ten, twenty times..._

_Thrown out into the misty cavern, back bleeding. They hadn't bothered to bind the decimated flesh. Hate, sorrow, misery, rejection, blinding. He ran that night, running for the woods._

_Getting away, escape. It was all he could think. Running, running. Until he hit something._

_Metal, rutted, scarred, thick. Armor. A ship pontoon, faded red paint on it, flaking._

_His escape. The Strikeflier, even if he hadn't known it's name them..._

_He had fixed it, mostly. With nothing more than the meager, old materials aboard, pushing the limits of his scant experience. Discovering he was actually good at something-at tech and machinery. Given the carrier the wings to fly out, to undergo a fair amount of recovery...the same could not be said for him..._

_**Of course not. You said it yourself, bastard. You are a wreck, a runt. No one-**_

"Shut the fuck up!" Takar jolted awake, his tentative doze having become what he didn't want-the memories, flashing by fast, but not fast enough to block out the pain. And of course the voice had followed after.

Takar rocked back into a sitting position. "Get out of my head..." he growled, panting. "Get out..."

His head and shoulder hurt where they had been pressing against the smooth side of the control panels, on the flat side that supported access doors, just beside the flight interface. Raking his hands through his hair, Takar locked himself into a fetal position, blindly staring at the currently revealed circuit's and wires of the Strikeflier with wide eyes. Letting the soothing blue and hum of circuits calm him down, he frantically began to try and vanquish the voice.

_Go away, go away. Just leave me alone, just for now, voice._

The images receded. Takar allowed his frame to relax, letting out a long breath. The whip scars were still stinging, but that always took a bit to calm down...

He took another shuddering breath. Now able to focus on the aftermath, Takar bleakly wondered if he could confide in anyone. This had happened once before-Lehvahk had heard, and had ended up talking with him.

Yet Takar hadn't told Lehvahk anything in the end, really. Nothing about what had really upset him. Were the people around him friends, comrades, or family? He couldn't figure it out. They were all hiding things, even if they weren't as mentally unstable as Takar was. He wanted them to trust him, but why would they?

Takar buried his head in his hands. He couldn't bring himself to trust the others with his secrets. He let out a little, sadistic laugh at the irony. It came out more as a hoarse bark, barely recognizable as his own voice.

Then again...

"I'll reserve judgment on these idiots," he muttered. "Maybe they can heal someone like me..."

He would like an actual family, after all...

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Brendon busily flipped through his book, eyes devouring text. Reading had always been his thing-his refuge. He was, as Lehvahk liked to call him, a living encyclopedia. His studious habits had helped save him from the dark pit of his early abandonment.

Being the half breed he was-a term that was bitter even when uttered to himself-it wasn't altogether surprising when he had been abandoned. He remembered nothing of his blizzarian parent-only the draconic one, vanishing into the sky on her broad wings. Where the dragoness had gone had never been something he had cared to find out. The sting of betrayal was too haunting, too painful, to revisit.

As it was, the result could have been worse. He had ended up being adopted by the keeper of the Amur Sarquis, the Great Librarium, and had practically grown up in bookworm, history buff heaven.

The building had always been a mysterious enigma, never fully understood. It was known to have several powers, only one or two of which had ever been observed-the ability to phase in and out of reality. The Librarium wrote its own books, gathered its own artifacts and bones, through means that could only be described as mystical.

Despite the ambiguous characteristics of the structure, it was heavily respected-the last known gift from the gods before they had retreated from the mortal plane after Amihawk's beginning. Ever expanding, ever collecting, the librarium contained the history of every inhabited world in the universe, in books, tomes, skeletons, artifacts, with complete accuracy.

Brendon sighed, just slightly wistful. The Great Librarium had an effect on all who entered-while there, the world faded away. The visitor always felt compelled to seek more knowledge. The air, thick with the smell of paper and wood, invoked a simple peace, one some were reluctant to leave. That was especially true depending on how much turmoil such beings had within them.

The gray draconic blizzarian paused in his reading. His childhood refuge had also been where he had first met Fearon and Somra, where he had first begun to dream of living the daredevil life of a sky knight squad and mercenaries. The moment was etched in sharp clarity, right in his mind.

And now he was living it.

He shook his head. _I'm getting too distracted. Focus up, Brendon._

The tide of thoughts had led right back to the current challenge ahead of them, the Shifting Sands and the Hive. The latter was laid out in text before him, all the legends and known facts complimented by pictures. The book didn't make the Hive sound any less daunting-if anything, it intimidated the mage more. Brendon wasn't going to cringe from admitting that. The Hive was something anyone should fear, but...

_Courage is important, too. But one can't have courage without fear._

Brendon rested his fingers on his temple. "I'll spend the night reciting spells," he muttered, smiling slightly and conviction mounted. "And...reading up on the Shifting Sands."

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The light from the sparks of Somra's soldering rod lit her face. A pair of protective glasses sat on her nose as she slowly and carefully melted shut the careful incision on the bomb. It was large, too big for her to carry-really, it was part of a collaborative effort between her and Takar to get ready.

The thing had taken effort to make-they were only likely to break it out when they found themselves at the Hive. No one had said it aloud, but the general, grim understanding was that the chase would lead to the dread place in the desert's center. Inevitably, eventually.

Her hand fell limp as the last part of the opening was sealed. Her mind began to drift as Somra stared at the photo-her family, the day when she had still been six, still had her family.

_Parents gone, the caravan burning. The coward younger brother, running, disappearing. Hours later, stumbling through the dark. Cruel, blank faces. Slave drivers, come to take her, to find pickings among the rubble._

_They made her work-made her serve their needs. They would hit her, enjoy her pain, and then watch as she scrubbed, to protect herself, and her sick younger brother. So small, frail..._

_The day came when she was thirteen. Shouting, yelling, the slave drivers tried to resist as the military bore down on them...she watched, a lost little ghost child. Ravenged by grief, her brother...Kurahk..._

_A familiar face, lined and sad eyed, grief prominent. Her grandmother. Just one look shows she has lost everything as well. Everything but her granddaughter. _

_She watches as her grandmother closes Kurahk's eyes. Failure and denial wash over her. This was her failing. Her younger brother had counted on her..._

_She had let him down. Crumpling, letting her only remaining family member comfort her, she had cried-emptying out the pool of her shredded feelings..._

Somra jolted awake when her chin made contact with the desk. She scowled at it, blearily thinking that the bed sounded nice.

The weapons specialist hugged her shoulders, trying to forget what she had just recalled. She didn't want to fall asleep to that-it would end up being in her head all night.

The teen shuddered one last time, the air conditioning suddenly feeling to cold. She abruptly laid everything down and pulled her sleeping robe closer, shuffling over to the bed. Sinking down into the folds of the blankets, Somra tried to turn her thoughts to a better place. Instantly they ended up in the long blank red sands of the desert, wonder at its savagery, and at the things that lurked there.

Somra fell asleep with the thrill of battle singing in her blood, the picture of her family watching over her….

**Feedback is very wanted and appreciated. special thanks to GreyWolfDruid for bieng a steady reviewer-the sotry still isnt done, and the final chapter or two is still being written. the whole thing has taken me several months to compile. keep in mind all writers really like to hear what people think of works they have put hard work and love into :D**

just checked and realized some anonymous ppl had reviewed- thx enormously for the support :D


	5. Into the Desert

CHAPTER 5

**INTO THE DESERT**

The next morning was bright and for a brief time, blessedly cool. Fearon was taking his time eating a bagel, trying to put his failures with the Fire and Lightning spell out of mind. He scowled at the food. A whole night, and he hadn't gotten it.

Takar hadn't moved from the ship helm the entire time, while Somra had somehow gotten Brendon into a wrestling match. The play fight had managed to lift his spirits some, enough so that when Somra vaulted Brendon over her shoulder, he cracked a smile.

The mage groaned as the weapons specialist threw him down for the fourth time. "Oh yeah, I win!" she crowed, throwing up her arms and dancing around. Fearon laughed aloud. There was nothing like the antics of friends to get a person out of a slump.

"You're going to break him one day, Somra. There's such a thing as a mercy win."

"Thanks," Brendon sarcastically added. "If I could use any spells in here..."

Takar instantly stood straight up and glared over his shoulder. "Hell no. the last thing anyone needs is the Strikeflier getting damaged."

Brendon sighed and sat up. Somra smiled and retreated. The mage's melancholy expression lifted when Scout bounded into his lap and nuzzled him. "Case and point."

"Good."

Fearon stood up and stretched, having finished the bagel. He was pondering challenging Somra himself when a high whine sounded from Lehvahk's direction. The sharpshooter was slumped against the window, staring down at the red sands below.

"When do we get some excitement? We've been flying forever."

Fearon mentally groaned. Lehvahk had been asking this question for the past few minutes. In the hope of keeping a calm exterior, he bit back the groan and instead covered the space of the small bridge to reach Lehvahk's side. "It hasn't been that long. And besides, what would we possibly do down there without an actual target?" He waved a hand at the red sanded desolation out the window.

Fearon had thought he'd proved his point, but Lehvahk's snort showed otherwise. The leader sighed, rooting for another explanation, only to have Takar beat him to it.

"You want fun?" the pilot's face was suddenly shadowed under his hair. "I'm sure the sand beasts will provide much fun for you. As in, a fight for your life, fun." His shoulders heaved in a silent, doubtless sadistic laugh.

The swordsman was halfway between congratulating Takar for a job well done-a rare thing-or retorting against him for terrifying Lehvahk. Glancing down at the sharpshooter, he found that Lehvahk had paused and inched warily away from the window. "Ah.." He said slowly and quietly. "I guess I'll just stay here."

Fearon blinked. The reaction hadn't been that of someone who was highly afraid. Something about Lehvahk had changed. If anything, the side of him that was showing now seemed to be incredibly real.

Since the sniper seemed fine, Fearon let a smirk slip past his calm facade. Behind him Somra laughed freely, ignoring Lehvahk's fierce requests to stop. Brendon was pouring over scrolls that had appeared from seemingly nowhere.

"Well...aren't they just big bugs?" Lehvahk sounded rather tactical now. He had begun fiddling with his rifle, emptied of ammo for precaution.

"Just huge bugs?" Fearon echoed with clear astonishment. He couldn't be serious. The average person knew that wasn't all they were.

But then, Lehvahk hadn't grown up around the stories. Fearon always had an easy time forgetting that. He had been born in Atmos, a place with legends based on different elements.

Rahk quickly began to inform the sharpshooter of where he was wrong, even when Lehvahk began to focus on the rifle's delicate parts.

"Actually, sand beasts are known for being practically undetectable under the sand. They can easily sneak up on anything, and have carapaces that are almost completely impenetrable by anything short of airship artillery. Their tails have twenty kinds of various poisons with different effects, that they can alternate depending on what they need. Is this starting to make sense to you?"

Lehvahk winced. "Uh, yeah. Maybe I should revise my previous statement."

Fearon raised an eyebrow. Lehvahk seemed full of surprises today.

The blaring of an alarm broke everyone out of the state of careless joy. "What the hell?" Somra was quick as usual to spit the curses out. "Who's attacking us?"

Takar banged a fist of the dashboard. Seething, he grasped the controls and wrestled the ship out of the sudden dive it had taken-an abrupt one that threw everyone else about like leaves.

Lehvahk thudded into the thick glass window with a pained grunt. He scrambled at the window as the ship was thrown into a sharp curve of a turn, almost wishing he'd never admitted to being bored. A grating noise and shudder of impact confirmed a rough landing, and resulted in Lehvahk being thrown into the back of the bridge.

He narrowly missed the door and hit the wall instead. The old pirate crest-a memoir to the two century old ship's bloody history before it came into their hands-pinned to the wall above him rattled loudly, and some of the pin up charts fluttered down around the sprawled sharpshooter.

Lehavhk shook his head groggily. When things stopped spinning, he beheld the sight of his companions sprawled about the room. Scout had looped both forelegs around Brendon, who seemed to have clung for his life onto the built in couch. Now the mage slumped exhaustively into a sitting position.

Fearon and Somra had been thrown back near were Lehvahk was. He snickered as they separated from their embrace. It wasn't by skin tone Lehvahk judged the level of their potential embarrassment-Fearon's blue green scales hid that, and Somra's dark blue ones even more-but rather by their wide eyes. Fearon, especially, had a rare, skittish look in his.

"Uh...sorry for holding onto to you so hard," the leader mumbled, hastily getting up.

"Yeah. Okay," Somra mumbled distractedly.

Lehvahk sniggered, and winked knowingly when Somra glanced his way. The two of them were most definitely in love. He prided himself on knowing these things.

"Gods dammit!"

The volatile curse was compounded by a harsh bang as Takar kicked the dashboard-although in the end not with that much force-and whirled around seething. "We've overheated."

"I thought you said you'd fixed that!" Fearon hissed, glaring at the helmsman.

Takar immediately bridled. "I did, dumbass. The ship detected a sudden spike in heat before the whole thing happened. A unnatural surge."

"Nice excuse. How much brain power did it take to come up with that?" Fearon shot back with a verbal arrow.

Lehvahk winced as the harsh sting. "Well ya know...what's done is done." The shooter made a effort to quell the fires, but withered almost immediately under the twin stares of anger. "I'm sorry!" he yelped, diving behind cover again.

He peeked over and sighed in relief when Fearon's shoulders loosened, showing his efforts hadn't been entirely in vain. Lehvahk fist pumped, while Fearon started to talk again, looking anywhere but Takar.

"Alright. Just check whatever's wrong. The rest of us will go outside, and keep watch for any of the shittish dangers this place is supposed to have."

"Fine," Takar replied curtly.

"Fine."

With that, the respective occupants each went their separate ways. Gulping, Lehvahk inched after Fearon. "Uh, just were are we watching from?"

The swordsman only cast the barest glance back at him. "From the sand, of course."

"Err...wouldn't the, ah, runway be better?"

"Come on, Lehvahk," Somra chortled, throwing a arm over his shoulders. Lehvahk jumped and nearly felt his heart stop. "What's the fun in that?"

"Besides," Rahk added, "The vantage point wouldn't help us spot them. Sand beasts are excellent and staying hidden. That, and they can jump. Really well."

Lehvahk winced for what felt like the third time in the last minute. He was partly afraid his face would get stuck like that.

He could show what he could really do. But he was afraid of it as ever. The reason wasn't one he was eager to disclose-even to people like Fearon, who seemed able to see through anything.

One way or another, the others clearly had a different view of, 'fun,' than he did.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

The group of four stood silently on the red sand, with the Strikeflier's shadow casting it's wavy mark over the sediment. Somra shifted her feet, staring at the grains with interest. It was said by the Mere tribe that the sand was the product of the countless victims of the Shifting Sands-and the force that controlled it all. The Hive, ever veiled in obscurity.

King Lief and his companions were the only known ones alive to see what lay at the heart of this place. And even then, it had been a bare glimpse of the home of the desert's rulers. Despite herself, Somra couldn't help but imagine...what would it be like to storm the Hive themselves?

She was shaken out of her thoughts by a sharp hiss. A quiet clink of a sword belt was all it took to know Fearon was battle ready. A glance at Scout confirmed the danger. The visorak's back was arched, the short ridge of hair on his spine standing on end. The spiny crest between his eyes had flared orange. Brendon glanced at him and gripped his staff harder.

Somra peered out at the sand. Varons had some of the best eyes of all humanoids, and she raked the desert with them. A small trail of moving sand caught her eye-barely detectable, but there.

"Sand beast," Fearon growled gutturally. "Get ready to deliver hell."

All cohesive thought was gone when the sand erupted before them in a spectacular upheaval. Somra just managed to avoid a claw, Fearon a tail. Scout danced back and let loose a gout of fire. The superheated flame turned the sand into shards of glass, eliciting a hiss from the creature sheltering in the falling sediment. The glass stung the softer undersides of Somra's arms as she rolled out of the way. A purple flare from Brendon's arcane shield showed that he had managed to avoid getting gutted himself.

Rising, the weaponsmaster got her first good look at a Sand Beast. As eager to fight and courageous as she tended to be, Somra was momentarily daunted-and admittedly, scared. The images of the thing she had seen in Neffar's sand wall had not done the true monster justice.

The creature was instectoid, having landed in a crouch in the aftermath of the dramatic entrance. Sand streamed from the chinks in the beast's spiky black carapace as the material flashed in the harsh sun. The antlike head swiveled to follow Fearon as the swordsman made a move to the left. The sand beast took a step forward on bowed legs and swiped at him with scythelike claws. The pincers came next-Fearon parried both, retreating back toward the ship's engine.

The lightning bolt marks indicating the Zephyr's Speed enhancement flashed on his arms. Fearon jumped, using it to land and balance on the Strikeflier's pontoon. Somra could guess several reasons-anything from a brief break to a vantage point to attack.

She felt it was the latter.

The sand beast seemed to gather itself. It looked upward slowly, a horrible squishing creak coming from the joints. Balefully it raised a spiked tail, wicked stinger gleaming wetly. Tendons tensed to pounce.

Somra finally managed to snap out of her mesmerized stance. Shouting, she activated her Black Dragon enhancement. She charged, aiming the spear right at the chink in the sand beast's side.

The creature was faster than she'd bargained for. It twisted, removing the chink from Somra's range of attack and replacing it with carapace. Vicious pincers made to snap at her.

Somra tensed, aware that it would be hard to avert her charge. When the beast lunged, she dropped one foot from under her and slid between the sand beast's legs. The pincers got sand, and more sprayed as the creature readjusted it's angle.

A vicious shout and a clang, burning with the orange glow of fire, was the next thing to sound. The sand beast jerked left, and with a harsh clattering noise of more annoyance than pain, focused on Fearon. Somra rolled back upright and dove back out into the open, managing to deflect the unguided stinger, burnt of the blow lessened by the strength enhancement. The sound of bullets and boom of a rifle confirmed that Lehvahk had finally begun to make himself useful. The little bastard could've done it sooner, Somra thought scornfully.

Purple chains of magic were next to appear. They locked around the sand beast and began to tighten.

Somra caught a brief glance of the effect as she made to regroup with her companions. The sand beast chattered again. Scout hissed, bounding back and forth like a agitated greyhound before releasing another burst of flame. The sand beast took a step or two back from the onslaught of more bullets.

Judging from the creature's lack of real reactions, Somra thought it safe to say that, annoyingly, what they were doing wasn't hurting it much. How friggin tough could a overgrown bug be?

"This isn't godsdamn working," Fearon snarled darkly. "We need a weak point. Something, anything, to exploit."

The tone bothered Somra, but it always did on some subliminal level. Right now there was the immediate concern. "There are chinks, right?"

"It's doing a fuckin good job of keeping them out of reach," Fearon grumbled.

"Maybe the confuse tactic?"

"Maybe. Ai, Lehvahk!" Fearon yelled.

Lehvahk poked his head over his rifle. "Yeah?"

"Fire at the eyes! Brendon, Scout, we need fire!"

The marksman did as told. The sand beast finally seemed to reel with recognizable pain as the bullets showered it's round multi-faced eyes, much to Somra's sadistic delight. Red rune circle glowed on the forehead. A second later, it blew up in a spectaulcar flare of arcane magic. The sand beast screeched in audible pain, Lehvahk's laugh carrying above it. "Oh yeah. I'm awesome!"

Since when could he do that? Somra shrugged it off. She'd ask later.

The sand beast staggered, and both Fearon and Somra charged at once.

Fearon muttered the words of a enhancement that Somra had only heard a few times. Blue fire shaded his form, making him literally into shadows. He struck so quickly Somra saw nothing but a thin band of blue. Green and black insect blood showered, and the sand beast howled. Twin blasts of flame doused it once Fearon had leaped out of range, one from Brendon's spell and the other from Scout's jaws.

Somra went for her turn. The creature, though, had finally seemed to get wise.

Shit.

The thing batted her with the back of a disoriented claw. Somra only suffered one wound, managing to inflict her own blow with her spear. She landed heavily beside Lehvahk, who jumped with a sharp yelp.

The sand beast's head instantly swung their way. The tail came down, aiming right at Lehvahk. He cursed and leaped, jumping the stinger with a hair's breath of distance to spare. Somra struggled to get past the wild beat of her heart and the pounding in her head.

Fearon appeared seemingly from nowhere, but judging from the angle, Somra thought it likely he had launched himself from the sand beast's back. His hands became dyed with orange and red as he activated a flame enhancement. Blades alight, the swordsman sliced the stinger off.

The sand beast reared back, the tail dripping blood and fluid as it writhed like a snake in pain, sizzling and burning. Fearon landed with a pant in front of his two friends.

Lehvahk took the chance to start being annoying again. "You could have helped save my butt a little."

Somra snickered. Even in the midst of battle she couldn't resist a tease. "Probably cause it wasn't worth the effort."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Takar had finished fixing the cooling unit. He stood up and mopped his brow with the back of his hand, grease decorating his fingers. He froze at the sand beast's harsh squeal from the loss of it's stinger. One look out the engine room window was all he needed to know just what had happened.

And gave yet another reason to wonder about the idiocy of his teammates/friends.

Grumbling about, 'godsdamned imbeciles,' Takar stomped back up to the bridge. He brushed a hand across the controls before settling on the firing trigger for the tiny ship's few but powerful broadside cannons, build into the sides of the hanger and hidden behind slats when not in use. The engines hummed as the ship set distance between it and the ground. Snagging the radio comm with one hand, Takar lazily drawled his warning into the loudspeaker. "Clear out, I'm firing the cannons. Unless you want to be blown to smithereens."

Feeling his point suitably made, Takar pressed the button as the Strikeflier listed to the right.

Xxxxxxxxxxxx

Fearon grabbed both Somra and Lehvahk by the collar and yanked them back, hastily backpedaling.

It turned out the distance was nearly not enough. The broadside cannons fired, the vast amount of crystal energy and arcane ammunition blasting the ground before them full force. More crystallized sand spun in every direction. The sand beast was sent flying, landing in a sprawled heap yards away.

When it stood again, Fearon cursed and reached for his swords. Then the thing hissed, and slunk away behind a dune.

It didn't appear again. The swordsman relaxed slightly, deciding the beast must have decided to flee for now.

Best to get of the ground then.

Pulling Lehvahk behind him, he and Somra made for the Strikeflier, now land bound once more. The pontoons were still humming, the heat causing additional ripples in the hot air. Climbing up the boarding hatch, Fearon dropped Lehvahk and brought a fist down on the button.

The ramp and the hatch closed. A deep growl and a soft whine sounded as the airship lurched up again.

Fearon left Lehvahk slumped against a wall as he attempted to regain his breath. He cared more right now about confronting their ill-tempered pilot than waiting for him or Somra.

Not much to his surprise, Takar completely ignored him as he entered. The kerion didn't even look up when Fearon purposely hit the side of the metal table with his knuckles to get his attention.

Kerion hearing was excellent-everyone knew that. Fearon's temper stoked when he decided that there was no way Takar could have missed his presence after that.

The bastard was pretending to ignore him.

Damn him.

"Hey. Hey, techno recluse."

Takar slammed an access hatch shut, likely with more force than needed. He stood to full height and glared at Fearon, looking down a little to cover the few inch difference in their heights. "What?"

"That was a big gamble." Fearon could just bite back his accusatory note. A bit must have slipped through, though, if the sudden narrowing of the pilot's eyes was anything to go by. "You could've easily blown us up."

"But here you are, all alive." Takar drawled boredly. The relaxed look was an easy veil for the gleam of anger in his red eyes. He wiped at the dust and grease that had smudged his gold brown fur on his arms and brow. "You moved in time, right?"

"Yeah. But we could have been too slow." Fearon always had trouble keeping a civil conversation with the pilot, and his tact was starting to run out. "You could've accidentally blown us to smithereens." The swordsman bitterly quoted Takar's earlier announcement.

Takar settled for staring him down. Fearon was readying another lane of attack when Somra and Brendon marched in, hauling Lehvahk between them.

"Good gods," the blizzarian muttered. He allowed himself to be draped limply onto the bridge seating. "That thing was sure a bit of Hive nastywork."

"Sand beasts aren't part of the Hive," Brendon automatically corrected his friend, much to nearly everyone's amusement. Takar just huffed and turned away, while everyone else began to chuckle. "They just live out here. The Hive doesn't control them-it just controls the desert's weather, and reaps the remains of the sand beast's victims."

Lehvahk seemed to go even paler. "Uhhh...okay. That's way to much info, really. I could have lived all my life without hearing that."

"Better take it to heart." Brendon's smile was humorless. "We will be headed back down there soon."

The marksman's eyes widened. "Uh, are you sure Takar doesn't need any help.."

A low snarl came from the pilot's direction. "Hell no. you'd just break something."

"I swear I wouldn't!"

"Either way..." Somra sidled up behind Lehvahk and tauntingly poked his shoulder. "You're a lot more useful in battle." She sniggered. "As bait."

"Hey!"

**as usual, i would appreciate reviews. the anonymous reviewers as well as those with accounts :D**


	6. Desert Spirits

_**Disclaimer-i don't own Storm Hawks, Deltora Quest, or any other copyrighted materials. **_

_Age Clarification-_

_Fearon-18 (a month has passed since Of bounty hunters and Empires.)_

_Somra-16_

_Lehvahk-15_

_Takar-21_

_Brendon-17_

_scout-10_

CHAPTER 6

**DESERT SPIRITS  
**

Fearon's curse rang out through the night. He kicked at the sand in frustration as the attempted spell failed-again.

He'd been tying to master the elusive Fire and Lightning enhancement for some time. Upon embarking on this journey, the urge to perfect it had reared it's head anew. Driven by that and his innate, near constant companion of pain, Fearon had opted to lose himself in training.

He had been hoping to both succeed in the spell and think of just were their elusive target could be. Instead, Fearon found himself becoming more and more frustrated by the minute. Fire and Lightning was like a wild horse, rearing and fighting, the sheer output of power required making it near impossible to control.

Fearon grit his teeth as he paused for breath. Grunting, he sucked in another breath, preparing to try again.

The varon teen shook his head and tried the enhancement spell for the umpteenth time. The result was disparagingly the same-he came close, only to feel the cast fade away in a unmanageable burst.

Maybe he needed to focus better. Almost instantly, Fearon's frenzied mind rejected the idea involuntarily. There were just too many things to worry about, from his own problems to the other's problems, to the criminal they were tracking, to the desert itself.

The frustrations just kept piling up. With a guttural, animal noise of anger Fearon drove both swords into the sand and kneeled, bracing his forehead on the palm of his hand.

How was he ever going to do this...

"Didn't fancy finding you out here."

The grumpy voice pulled Fearon out of his cluttered head quickly. Slanting his gaze upward and standing, the swordsman beheld the last person he wanted to see. Takar met his gaze with a taunting smile, lips curled in a derisive grin.

"What the hell's your deal?" Fearon spat. "I can be out here if I want."

It wasn't like Takar had any right to monitor him, though it was to be expected he would notice the leader being outside. Fearon was well aware that Takar wasn't much of a sleeper. He was a self proclaimed insomniac, whether by choice or not, the leader didn't care.

What he mainly wanted was for Takar to get out of his face.

Takar scoffed inwardly at Fearon's anger. It was funny, really, especially given that the bastard idiot was intruding on _his_ private time.

The night was his time to just be alone. Takar's hands tightened on the deck rail. He couldn't help not being able to sleep. All the bastards likely thought otherwise.

Screw them. No one understood him. Ever.

Fearon was still staring at him with a narrow reptilian gaze. Abruptly he yanked the swords back into his hands and started performing several slashes and imaginary parries. Takar wrinkled his nose in a snort, leaning against the Strikeflier's strong bridge windows. He crossed his arms and stared down at Fearon some more, wondering if it was worth it to dig for info about where Fearon had been before the team.

Ah, what the Seven Hells. Takar was bored, and wanted to distract himself from his own troubles. He decided to go for it. Absentmindedly he grasped his shoulder, feeling the first of the whip scars across his back. Takar started talking, carefully watching Fearon's expression.

Crossing his arms across his chest, Takar began asking. "So what's suddenly inspired you, oh leader?"

Fearon froze in position before assuming another one. "Necessity."

It was a unsatisfying answer. "That or just that you don't want to fail at something?" Takar allowed a taunting edge to creep into his sentence. "Would it be too much of a blow to your pride?"

Takar was certain he heard Fearon growling. When the varon spoke, though, the tone was carefully under control. "Striving for something is a good distraction."

"From what?"

"Just from things."

"What things, though?"

Fearon's shoulders tensed. "Godsdammit, Takar! It isn't your firckin problem!"

Takar bared his teeth. "I'm no idiot, bastard. I've seen the obvious pain in you. Studying medical stuff tends to give you that. And I'd have to be blind to miss that you're mentally scarred, too!"

"No different from you!" Fearon snarled back. "Grumpy, jackass insomniac!"

"Frickin killing machine," Takar snapped back.

Fearon hissed. Then he turned away with a angry sigh. "Whatever."

Takar's mouth twisted into a grimace. And he had thought he was the grumpy one.

The rest of the night was spent in awkward silence. Takar eventually settled for lying on the deck, slowly intaking a wine bottle. The Sky Knight continued to practice, unperturbed, at least outwardly.

All in all, Takar had never wished more that he could comfortably fall asleep.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

The second time they chose to land, it was mainly Fearon's fault. He had thought he'd seen the same shadow he had viewed on the wall in Rithmere, and in a burst of recklessness had demanded that the group land and search for several feet around the Strikeflier.

He felt suitably foolish when they regrouped by the small airship carrier, having found nothing.

"Nice. I bet you're finally going mad, sword swinging fool," Takar's scornful comment was infected with a faint sense of humor. Fearon growled, ready to retaliate, and glimpsed movement from the corner of his eye.

Fearon whipped around to face it, swords out and baring his teeth in a silent snarl. He was done with this. Whatever the shadow was, it was about to become bloody strips.

When his gaze landed on nothing but red sand-again-Fearon let out a frustrated sigh.

"Maybe he is going mad..."

"Shut up," Fearon retorted, sending Lehvahk a searing look of rebuke. Lehvahk took a step back and offered a wide smile of apology. Fearon sighed again. Sheathing one sword and still holding the other, the swordsman ran his free hand through his hair. "I'm not going crazy. At least, I hope I'm not."

The instant he'd let the words out, Fearon wished he could take them back. Takar's mouth was curved into a smirk of victory, while Somra and Brendon shared worried glances. Scout cocked his head to once side and whined mournfully.

Lehvahk shook his head in mock sadness. "Never thought I'd hear you say that."

The leader slumped his shoulders in exasperation. "Look, I'm not going crazy. Disregard anything I said before, okay?"

"We've been out here for a few days at least, four total," Brendon spoke up tentatively. "Maybe, you should, um..."

"Sleep," Somra harshly interjected. "You've been up from dusk till dawn practically every night for the whole course of this chase. It's no wonder you're seeing things."

"N-" Fearon abruptly stopped himself from blurting out another drab excuse. He knew damn well that they were all correct-he hadn't slept three of the four nights the team had been out on the desert, and the one night he had slept had been fragmented by nightmares. The regular occurrence couldn't have found a worse time to rear it's head, as Fearon had spent the rest of the night on the observation deck, with a bottle of whiskey.

He'd hoped to sleep. Instead all he got was a headache, sore muscles, and a throbbing paranoia that the shadow he'd seen in the alley was stalking him.

Fearon grit his teeth. The shadow had been a trick of the light, or just the mind. It had to be. He'd left it behind in the dusty streets of Rithmere. It wasn't fricking here.

All attempts to restructure his calm state were shattered when the shadow flitted across Fearon's vision again.

He snapped. Letting his blood seeking criminal instincts take over, Fearon lunged at it with a bestial roar and clenched fists-and then was bodily tossed into the air, with the cries of his friends resounding through a rush of sediment.

Sand. Multiple obscenities ran through Fearon's brain when it became apparent that the Shifting Sands next and most deadly threat had revealed itself.

The sand itself wasn't deadly-it was the disorientation. The sand buffeted Fearon from every direction. Early on he had curled into a ball, but the world was still spinning far too much-and he had to close his eyes to block out the sand or risk being blinded.

When the motions finally stopped and Fearon made heavy contact with the ground, he found himself staring up into a plain blue sky. The blaring sun caused his vision to speck of white patches, and Fearon squinted and rolled over, shading his face with an arm.

He lay in place for a few more moments, every sense alert, letting his breathing level out. Despite the aching pains and bruises, Fearon slowly eased into a combat crouch and peered at his surroundings.

"Shit."

The quiet curse carried all the venom of a cobra's poisonous teeth. The Strikeflier was nowhere in sight, and the desolate situation was made even worse by the lack of anyone-friend, enemy, or neutral-anywhere in the vicinity. With a sick lurch, Fearon recalled the sickening event earlier. It had effectively made him lose all sense of direction, and now...

he could wander out here for years and never get back. Of course, Fearon knew with grim certainty that he likely wouldn't live nearly that long without water.

The heat would dry him out eventually. Terredons could go without water for a week at the most-but it weakened them near the end, and without eventually finding a source of liquid, they'd still die.

Fearon let every curse he knew as he turned a full circle in place, his feet sending up puffs of red sand. The desert looked the same everywhere-the Shifting Sands cruel masters had gotten him well and truly lost.

The swordsman stopped and stood stock still, trying to regain his focus. He let out a slow exhalation, going over his limited to non existent options.

He didn't have long to sink into despair. A low hum began to grow on the edge of his hearing. The more Fearon thought about it, the more the buzz intensified.

He'd heard the stories talk about that ever persistent hum. It was said to be the Hive's black spire, radiating signals all across the Shifting Sands blood red sweeps. Fearon toyed with the idea of following it. If the renegade they wanted was there, it meant water. And Fearon would rather fight for a chance to live than wander. On the other hand, it could be complete suicide to charge into the Hive.

He didn't get the immediate chance to make the decision. More than that, he didn't have much of a choice then but to fall to one knee. His strength was flagging-the sleepless nights were catching up with him.

On top of that, he stiffened as a voice made it's way to him.

"Now, now. Fearon, don't give up now."

Bristling, Fearon lept to his feet again. He had a sword drawn and at the throat of the being that had-somehow and inexplicably-snuck up on him despite the swordsman's highly attuned senses.

It could always have been possible using the absorbency of the sand when it came to impact, but Fearon should have been able to still sense his presence. The wind had been coming from behind him-the varon teen should have at least scented the bastard.

Yet here he was. Completely unfettered by the sword, not even flinching at the initial drawing and positioning of the blade. The pale blue eyes of the intruder seemed to strip Fearon down layer by layer, and he shivered at the sense that, literally, the guy was peering into his mind. He bared his teeth in a snarl. "What the hell? Who're you, and why sneak up on me?"

The human man shook his head sadly, braided hair swinging. "How sad. You always liked to 'train,' with me when you were small, you know. I always saw such untapped talent in you..." he ran a hand along the edge of Syraphe, fingers a hair's breath away from being cut on the razor sharp edge. "And now you have the twin legends."

Fearon drew his next words out slowly on furious puffs on breath. "What..do..you...want?"

"To test you. Dear old Ream wants to make sure you are ready to face the Hive. To have any chance at completing your goal-and getting out of the depths of the Hive alive-you'll need to master Lightning and Fire. I believe you are close." Ream gave Fearon a wolfsih smile.

Taken aback by a flash of memory, Fearon blinked and took a startled birdstep back. Ream took a much calmer stride forward, taking advantage of the fact that Syraphe was now aimed at the sand below.

Ream. The name had made it to Fearon's subconscious, bringing with it the flashes of him, a seven year old, having play fights with this same man. He wasn't wearing the horned helm in those memories, but every other feature of the human man as the same as the one standing before him.

But by all rights, Ream should have been dead-killed in the ill-fated mission to assist the Atmosians in overthrowing their own tyrannical enemy, in hopes of winning their help to defeat Deltora's own enemy. The Red Wolves swordsman should not be before him.

"You-" Fearon had not felt so flustered in a long time. "But you were dead. Are dead."

Ream's smile held. "oh, I'm not alive. I've been allowed to let my spirit materialize on this plane, to see how you've grown. And as I've said, prepare for the Hive. The king and is companions only glimpsed the barest of it to retrieve the Lapiz lazuli-the true threats lie far below that pyramid of bones and gems. Like I said..."

"I'll need to master that spell," Fearon grated. "Yeah, so you've said. But I'm currently lost, out in the middle of the desert, and to live I need to find my friends and the Strikeflier."

The minute the words were out, Fearon felt his hand tighten on the hilt of his sword. He desperately wanted to do that-leave this vision behind, and find the people that he actually needed right now.

The spirit didn't seem to have heard anything but a few words. His gaze was far away. "The Strikeflier, yes. How's that old bird doing?"

The younger teen narrowed his eyes and felt tempted to growl in frustration. He didn't remember whether Ream had been this scatter-minded in life, but at the moment that mattered less than escaping this crazy illusion. "Whatever. I'm leaving."

Still gripping Syraphe in a death grip, Fearon whipped away from Ream and started to walk. He was only brought up short again when the spirit appeared before him again.

The swordsman took a startled step back and drew both blades. "Move already!"

"No. Fight me. I've momentarily given myself physical form and a pretense of pain." Ream's wolflike grin flashed again. "As per the rule of challenge after Adin's Unification of this nation, if one doesn't get up for three seconds, they lose. Then, I can aid you in returning to your friends."

The offer gave Fearon pause. One part of his mind was stubbornly insisting that this wasn't real, but the hard reality was that Ream wasn't likely to leave unless the varon teen fought. And even if he passed and let the spirit haunt him on the wanderings through the desert, if he had any chance of getting back to the Strikeflier…

He had no real choice. Why not go out fighting? If he won, Fearon could find the airship again and have a chance at living. With no knowledge of stars, his initial assessment of time left to live was starkly correct.

"Fine." The word left a bitter taste behind. "You get what you want, Ream."

"A battle?" the man whopped. "Oh, yes. This'll be fun. Don't deny it-every Deltoran loves to fight."

Ream was annoyingly correct. The archaic excitement of looming battle had already filled Fearon's mind and instincts, flooding his senses with hot exhilaration.

**pretty pls review. Authors find nourishment from reviews :D**


	7. Lost in the Sands

Disclaimer-i dont own Storm Hawks or Deltora Quest. 

**keep in mind that some of the history below, when it comes to the cartoon itself, are basically fan perceptions.**

**fun fact- the max speed of the Strikeflier is 900 knots per hour, although the speed runs down the fuel gauge fast, and a remarkable amount of talent is needed to keep the ship going in the right directions(if not, the controls get unruly and too dangerous.) when first built no one wanted it, mainly for the unusual appearance(pic drawn by me art/strikeflier-Lycanthropes-carrier-ship-446277408) and out of belief that the builder was just pitching a false tale. It was later picked up by a sky knight squadron that took a chance with it, which set off the ship's long journey through the hands of mercenaries, pirates, and sky knights over two centuries. (the Strikeflier is a total of 218 years old at the point of this story, believed to be the Condor's Deltoran made predecessor. The assumption was made from the detail that the Condor's blueprints were drawn by the maker of the Strikeflier then bought by the Storm Hawks. Before the Lycanthropes, the Red Wolves, Fearon's father's group, owned it.) **

**the Strikeflier's own blueprints are lost, believed burned long ago. **

**fun fact 2- the Shifting Sands is part of one of Deltora's eight territories, the Lapiz Lazuli territory. It is known as the realm of luck, due to being named after the Lapiz lazuli. In Deltoran culture, the midnight blue gem is thought to posses the ability to bring good luck, and have alink with the opal, another of the cherished Deltoran gems (the great opal is believed to show visions of the future, or possible futures. when near the great lapiz lazuli, both gems become stronger.) **

CHAPTER 7

**Lost in the Sands**

Brendon's ears felt like curling under the tirade of language. Takar had been cursing for several minutes, not even counting the initial thirty seconds before the eerie sandstorm. Feeling wretched and dirty, Brendon dusted red sand out of his gray fur and gazed out over the endless sweep of desert. The Shifting Sand's masters had sure waited for a good time to strike.

The Strikeflier was nowhere in sight. Without a ship, most people were good as dead out here.

The sardonic thought was barely over before Takar paused to take breath. The kerion had stopped his rapid pacing upon cresting a dune, poking the mound experimentally several times.

"Er…what are you checking for…" Lehvahk let the words linger.

Takar shot him a dirty look. "Sand beasts, of course. Idiot."

As insults went, Brendon noted it was not as…imaginative…as most of Takar's obscenities were. He put it down to distraction, especially when Takar pulled something from inside his zippered pants pocket.

Intrigued, Brendon began to climb the dune in turn. Behind him, Somra spat out sand and muttered something. He winced when Lehvahk replied with one sounded like a bad joke. Thumps sounded as the two began to fight.

Ignoring the scuffle, Brendon crested the dune and peered at Takar's small electronic. He had been flicking small switches and pressing buttons ever since he'd pulled it out. The motley thing looked like a cross between a tiny radio and a cell phone. It had likely not been made from bought parts.

"What's that supposed to do?"

Takar flipped one last switch in a crisply precise fashion. The tiny device lit up with magic runes, patterning exposed wire. "Homing beacon to the ship. The light's strong, so it can't be more than a few hours away. It's crossing the sands that'll be the problem."

Brendon shuffled in place, staring with narrowed eyes out across the vista. "Sand beasts?"

"That, the frickin heat, the bugs, the Hive's influence." Takar scowled and kicked the dune. "Everything's stacked against us."

Panting announced the presence of Lehvahk as the new arrival scrambled up to them. He slipped as one part of the dune cleaved away, then recovered his balance with a wide smile. "Lotsa lights on that thing. What's it for?"

Takar sighed, letting his shoulders slump. "In the language of idiots," he said patronizingly, "It's a glittery thing that'll help us find the Strikeflier again."

Brendon couldn't help but laugh a little. It seemed to take Lehvahk a second to realize he had been insulted-upon which his eyes went wide and he immediately attempted to protest.

"Hey, I'm smart!"

"About as much as a rock," Brendon muttered before he could stop himself. Lehvahk scowled at him while Somra broke out laughing behind him.

All were abruptly silenced when Takar's head shot up and his ears perked. He raised a hand in an authoritative gesture to stop.

It was known to everyone present that Takar didn't have actual authority, but they stiffened and obeyed anyway in response to the unspoken aura of leadership that Takar didn't even seem to know he had. Brendon surreptitiously slipped his staff from his back, spells already dancing through his mind. Somra had drawn her spear, Takar his heavy two handed sword. Lehvahk's fingers trembled near his rifle.

A glimpse of a carapace breached the sand like the back of a whale in the ocean. It paused briefly, and the group remained stock still. Brendon didn't dare breathe, and he didn't think anyone else was either.

The sand beast's tail flicked under the grainy covering. Then it turned west and slithered off. All three companions relaxed.

"Whew." Brendon hunched his shoulders, trying not to show how rattled he was. "Let's get out of here."

The trek then began. It was long, wearying, and by the time the familiar gleam of red, dark gray, and silver metal of the Strikeflier could be seen in a fuzzy blur, Brendon was ready to collapse.

He would have if a spiny black thing hadn't been there too-a black thing that, after several blinks, revealed itself as a sand beast. Judging from clotted black blood and the fine cracks on the carapace, it had to be the same one from the first day.

Brendon's heart sank. "That thing's got some fine predatory instincts. It must've figured that if it guarded our home, it would catch us."

"Clearly it's angry," Takar growled. "Blasted thing didn't even hide itself. It wants us to fight it."

As if to confirm, the shape stirred. Unfolding spiky limbs, it gazed at the dune they had ducked behind. Judging from the furtive glimpse Brendon snagged afterward, though, it didn't seem to want to come after them.

Yet.

"I'll give that thing a fight if it wants one," seethed Somra. She was burning with rage, and clenched her fists to help control the tide of anger. She snorted in derision at Brendon, chewing on his lip in worry. Dry lips, too. They all wanted water, but that was with everything else-on their currently blocked off ship.

Takar was still staring with narrowed eyes. He yanked Somra back when she impulsively went to charge and attack. "Wait."

"Why?" Somra hissed furiously, a snakelike lisp infecting her words. "We drove the thing off before."

"By scaring it off with the Strikeflier's artillery," Takar snapped back. "No damn progress was being made before that. I have and idea that might save us a whole frickin lots of time, and to keep us from being poisoned to death. Maybe even kill the goddamn thing."

Brendon let out a relieved breath beside her. "Good. Guessing your magic's going to be involved?"

"Aye."

"Cool! What are ya going to do?"

"Shut up and let me concentrate," Takar growled past bared teeth, "And maybe you'll see, bonehead."

Somra sighed, her feeling of elation dying down to sulky embers. She rocked back moodily on her haunches, thinking about how much she'd prefer to straight up stab the bastard insect. But regrettably, Takar was probably right that fewer injuries were best-as much as Somra didn't like it.

The other three Lycanthropes watched as Takar narrowed his eyes. He tentatively spread one hand a few inches before him, staring right at the Strikeflier. Somra watched with slight fascination as runic symbols crawled up the pilot's gloves hands, some wrapping around his fingers like snakes. It was different than Enhancement, and she had to wonder about how it worked.

Takar's mouth split into a wide grin. He clenched his fist. "Got them," he muttered.

Somra was tempted to ask what the pilot had gotten, but Takar had moved his hand in a sweeping motion and stood fully before she got the chance. The sand beast hissed and poised to jump.

Then the Strikeflier's hanger doors sparked, opening with a screech and a green flash of magic. Several shiny orbs flew through the ever enlarging gap, then jinked and plummeted at the sand beast.

The bombs blew up in several different but theatrical ways. Most were patched together from any manner of parts and magics, resulting in a few letting off charges of lightning, gripping vines, and simple, fiery bursts. Somra counted at least three other effects signature to several nations of origin before the sand beast screeched and turned a frenzied circle. A final flash bomb caused it to reel back in pain and confusion.

Takar's next actions startled everyone. He leaped over the sand dune and bolted for the Strikeflier, pounding past the sand beast. The insectoid creature barely seemed to notice.

"Come on, bastards! It can't see for now!" Takar bellowed.

Somra glanced at the sand beast before grudgingly following Takar's lead. It looked like she wasn't getting a rematch with this thing today. Brendon followed her, yanking Lehvahk behind.

The other three had gotten up the Strikeflier's entry ramp before things went eerily silent. Somra whirled, spotted pincers, and rolled away to the right. And unfortunately, away from the ship.

Takar cursed in the distance. The sand beast had torn out of the entangling vines released from the patched Afrisian bomb. Then it turned and made for the still open hatch, only to hiss in fury when Somra struck it's cracked carapace with her spear.

"Hell no!" she barked. "You ain't getting in there!"

The sand beast swiped at her with it's spiked claws. Out of the corner of her eye, Somra saw Brendon say something to Takar before shoving Lehvahk toward him. Then the mage had leaped out of the hatch himself, shouting command words. Bolts of arcane magic struck the sand beast, causing it to take some halting steps back.

Brendon ran up to Somra's side. She took the opportunity to yell at him. "What are you doing?"

"Helping you, that's what," he replied calmly. "Takar's got a new idea. We just need to distract this thing until he can put it in motion.

"Yay," Somra said sarcastically. "I've always wanted to be expendable bait."

Brendon's grin was wry and strained. "You and me both."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Fearon lunged, aiming to end the fight with Ream in the fastest way possible. He brought both his swords together, intending to slash Ream across the chest.

The spirit proved to be far better than the varon teen had remembered. With a fluid movement and a languid expression, he blocked with his single sword. Fearon's attack skated off the opposing weapon in a shower of sparks.

He stuck again, this time aiming under Ream's guard. This time Fearon managed to gash the spirit's side.

Ream turned out to be true to his word in terms of feeling pain. He grunted,face pulling into a grimace of clear hurt. The man twisted and brought his sword down in a arcing slash, so quick it looked like nothing but air.

Instinct proved to be Fearon's saving grace. He sidestepped quickly, feeling the rush of air as Ream's weapon just barely missed him. Turning the sidestep into a lunge, Fearon's swords lit up with fire as he activated the Enhancement runes.

His foe dodged the first slash, but Fearon got a glancing blow in with the second, cutting a graze on the elder swordsman's thigh and coupling it with a burn. Ream grinned with wild abandon as his own arms became patterned with his own enhancement runes.

Fearon recognized the spell immediately. He tensed, preparing for the inevitable approach of a now much faster enemy.

Zephyr's speed was an old favorite for a reason among the Enhancement branch-Fearon was sharply reminded of that when Ream flashed up behind him. He whirled to face Ream, but still suffered a burning red line of a wound being carved across his back. It wasn't deep, but did serve to stoke the fires of Fearon's urge to win.

His swords flashed in precise, measured swings, and Fearon instinctively backed them with a strength Enhancement spell. New runes glowed on his arms and shoulders as he hacked and slashed, dodging and leaping with abandon. Yet Ream kept up with him anyway, but Fearon was pleased to note he was mostly blocking.

His first alert to something changing after several minutes was when Ream briefly stilled, his eyes narrowed. The swordsman's arms tensed in the slight, subtle way one did when preparing for something big.

Fearon took the cue. He stopped attacking and threw himself into a sideways roll. Ream's sword flashed where he had been just before, cleaving a long rut in the sand. There was an audible cracking noise, and Fearon realized with a grim certainty that the attack had likely gone down far enough to pierce bedrock.

Ream laughed. "Well done, well done. I'm not holding back anymore, as you can see."

"I'm fine with that." Fearon's temper was rising, his blood boiling hotter with each passing moment. The more this went on, the more he wanted to win. "Go ahead and give it your all, old man."

"Now, now. That's low," Ream intoned softly. Then he dashed forward in a blue of motion. White streaks from the speed runes rent the air as his sword came down.

Fearon added the same enhancement to his already active list and dodged in a backward flip. Ream's blow missed and sent up a gout of sand. Fearon allowed flames to embrace his swords and hands again and slashed at the resulting wave, instantly turning the sands into glass shards.

Ream flinched and crossed both arms before him, leaping backward.

A distraction in Fearon's favor.

The shards flew everywhere, and Fearon took the abrupt risk of speeding right into them. His weapons flashed again, cutting the shards in his way into even smaller pieces. Swords raised, he twisted in midair and brought the weapons down from above his shoulder.

Ream's crossed arms had obscured his vision at least somewhat, slowing his reaction to Fearon's unexpected maneuver. Both blades rent the elder swordsman's flesh, wispy vapor escaping from the spirit's arms and flank. Ream was knocked back, but much to Fearon anger, he wasn't knocked down.

"You'll never get past a more experienced being this way!" Ream shouted up at him. His wolf grin peeked out again. "You need that spell..."

Fearon's vision became laced with red. He growled, bared his teeth, and crossed both weapons. As Ream dashed at him, Fearon recalled all his midnight practice, all the times he had been so close but failed.

This time, he wasn't going to.

The fire of his determination spread. Lightning bolt and flame enhancement runes, brighter than normal, took predominance on Fearon's skin, pumping in more power than he'd ever experienced. With a shout he slashed at the approaching Ream.

A brilliant cross of fire and lightning rent the air, blinding in their effect and power. Sand for miles around became superheated to glass in seconds. Ream yowled as two large rips opened on his spiritual shell, hissing with burns.

The man flew backward. He hit a sand dune with a thud. It was all Fearon could do to keep standing himself. He watched Ream tentatively as the spirit grunted, trying to stand again. He managed to, but it had taken the spirit a grand total of six seconds-three too many to keep him from losing.

Ream's shoulders shook in a silent laughter. His form became more ethereal, the wisping wounds healing up, until Fearon could see the swathes of sand behind him. "Excellent, excellent. You've passed my test."

Fearon blinked as the reality really sank in. His heart thumped faster, all his usual aches and pains still forgotten in the dying elation of battle. And now, at this time, overwhelming success.

He braced both hands on his knees and looked at the battlefield. It was more of a disaster than the Shifting Sands had likely seen for a long time. Cracked, wavy glass had replaced the sediment in several directions, and Fearon could see his own blood dotting a lot of the ground cover.

"Alright," Fearon ground out past gritted teeth. "I won. I won't pretend I'm not glad about finally getting that enhancement spell down. But," Fearon stood up straight again and glared at Ream, "You need to keep up your part of the deal."

"Of course," Ream chuckled. "Wouldn't want to disappoint the descendant of my dear leader."

Fearon's nerves lit up with a hot blaze of fury and shame. "Do not compare me to him. Get it, bastard?"

He didn't want to be compared to his dad. All it did was remind him of how much Fearon wasn't like his father, and how much he'd probably let him down.

Ream raised his hands defensively. "Okay, sore point. I get it. Well, then. Time to fulfill my promise."

The spirit snapped his fingers. Fearon let out a startled yell as he was enveloped by light.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Brendon grunted as the sand beast strained to escape his conjured arcane ropes. Each yank it made to get free resounded back through the energies of the spell, coming back to hit Brendon mentally with the force of a flying boulder. Dimly he was aware of veins showing on his hands, and of how much his fingers hurt from gripping his staff.

To his right, Somra took a swipe at the sand beast's head. The beast managed to twist in it's bound and lash a heavy tail. Somra grunted as the mangled limb lashed her square across the midsection, knocking her back in a shower of sand.

Gritting his teeth, Brendon narrowed his focus even more. The world disappeared as he immersed himself in the arcane energies, producing more chains-binding the sand beast down even more.

The insectoid beast tossed it's head, snapping gleaming pincers. Brendon barely heard Takar's next shout.

"Somra! Catch these!"

A harsh rattling noise accompanied the words. Brendon caught a bleary glimpse of Somra running at the sand beast. She leaped, flashing metal in her hands.

Brendon put two in two together then. Chains.

He still didn't know what Takar meant to do with them, though.

Somra moved quickly. Fluidly she wrapped the chains around the sand beast's limbs, head, torso, anywhere she could get a good point of leverage. The sand beast hissed and twisted in an attempt to bite her.

"Brendon, unbind it!"

To the mage's logical mind that course of action seemed questionable, but he did it anyway, redirecting the flow of power into a beam of purple arcane power. He sent the bolt at the sand beast, giving Somra room to vacate it's reach, and causing the beast to reel backwards in pain.

Somra landed with a pant next to him. Brendon braced his hands on his knees, taking long, deep breaths, trying to recover.

"That...was...really straining," he panted. "But what's Takar-"

Before he could finish, the metal links of the chains lit up blue white with electricity. The sand beast spasmed as the volts raced through it's insectoid body. The smell of burnt organic cartridge wafted into the desert air.

Lehvahk whooped. "Oh yeah!"

Brendon tensed when the sand beast twitched some more, making a cohesive effort to stand up. He heard Takar curse and guessed he would go to replicate his previous action.

It turned out unnecessary in a most spectacular way. A flare of white heralded the arrival of a familiar, sword bearing figure.

Fearon looked downright feral, which was saying a lot given that Brendon always thought he looked remarkably ferocious in a fight. His teeth bared in a savage snarl and pupils practically slits, the leader spun in midair once, then brought both swords down and severed the sand beast's head from it's decimated body.

The monster shuddered once. Then it collapsed limply, the head rolling to a stop at Brendon's feet. All he could do was stare at it, wondering just how Fearon had learned to teleport.

Somra cast a glance at the head. Brendon felt a little sick when she plucked it up by the antennae, muttering about making it a trophy. Then the weapons specialist was running to Fearon.

Brendon looked up too, slightly guilty that he hadn't thought about his friend's well being. Fearon had dropped to his knees, his swords stuck point first in the sand. His head was bowed, every line of his form rigid with pain, and he was breathing hard.

Brendon narrowed his eyes as he moved to help Somra aid Fearon to stand. He glimpsed a long wound on the varon's back, plus a few more on his sides. The swordsman's eyes drooped with exhaustion, doubtless from the voluntary sleep deprive. But none of that explained the greater problem that Fearon's visible pain seemed a lot more than just the wounds would give.

As they slowly walked back, Brendon decided to do some prying. It was an abrupt decision, but it was starting to bother him. He'd noted the strange symptom in Fearon several times before, even when he wasn't hurt. It was well hidden, and would take only someone's highest observant capacity to see.

It was a good thing Brendon was observant. He decided to start off casual.

"You alright?"

Fearon spared him a brief, veiled glance. "Fine." He let out a small cough. "I need to get to my room..."

"To rest?" Brendon kept his voice steady. He didn't want Fearon or Somra picking up on just how careful his questions were.

Somra chuckled. "Bout time you slept."

Fearon's fingers twitched instinctively into fists. "No. there's no time for that. I just need to get something." A snarl had worked it's way into Fearon's words.

"Honestly," Somra muttered, "We aren't going anywhere until you do sleep."

Fearon's eyes flashed for a second. Brendon braced himself, thinking he might use his authority as leader to resist them. Instead Fearon just let out a weary sigh. "Fine."

"Before that, though," Brendon added, "You should tell us just what happened to you." He eyed the cuts. "Those don't look like they were made by claws. And I don't think enhancement magic involves teleporting at all."


	8. Regroup

Disclaimer-i do not own the Deltora Books or Storm Hawks.

CHAPTER 8

**REGROUP**

"So...you saw a dead guy. And he sent you here as a reward for beating him?"

Fearon grimaced. Clearly, Lehvahk's incredulity was obvious, especially since he hadn't bothered to hide it. But the story was simply one of the most unbelievable things Lehvahk had ever heard, and he considered himself pretty open-minded.

The leader's one or two wounds had been patched. A few tiny red scrapes marked the side of his face. If Lehvahk had to guess, it looked like something he'd get from stone or glass shards, but where would Fearon encounter either out here?

"I'm serious. It happened."

"Or," Takar muttered, "You've finally gone crazy, bastard."

Fearon scowled at him. "This is one of those moments I wish I didn't owe you for wrapping up injuries," the swordsman growled through grit teeth.

"Oh, that's just fine."

"I hate you."

"Mutual feeling."

"Children, children. Let us not fight." Lehvahk's impish grin turned to a yelp as Somra threw a plastic bottle at him. "Ow!"

"Serves you right, little wench! Shut it!"

"Everyone stop talking!"

Fearon's shout had all the effectiveness of a cannon shot. The disagreeing pair became silent. Brendon breathed a sigh of relief.

"Alright." Fearon shifted his weight, settling into a more comfortable sitting position. Brendon noted a short wince, likely the product of the back wound, despite his nagging suspicions. "From the way Ream was talking, it sounds like he expects us to end up at the Hive. It wouldn't be too crazy to assume that's where Acryonoi is."

"But it is crazy to assume we can make it in there and out alive," Takar broke in, rather acidically. "Just how would we survive the Hive?"

"With the Ebon Nightslayer."

Brendon's answer was sudden and instinctual, even as his mind brought up the legend in full. "Remember what Neffar said?"

"The sand guy?" Lehvahk replied in fake confusion. "I think I zoned him out. What, was he talking about some kind of torch made out of obsidian? I'm sure that could keep the bees away."

Brendon groaned in exasperation. There were times he really didn't appreciate Lehvahk's jokes. "No. would you like me to recount the story in full? I'm sure it would fill in the blanks for you." Brendon felt a small flow of joy flood him at the prospect.

"Uh, no?"

"Too bad, you're hearing it."

"Great," Takar blew a sigh of unhappiness.

"Oh, come on," Somra murmured. "It's a great story." Her bright red eyes, unusually placid, regarded Brendon with anticipation.

"You like stories?"

"I'm starting," Brendon interceded, a fair amount of indignation in his voice. "Now stop interrupting."

"As the story goes, the Hive didn't always have a marked piece of land. The Shifting Sands didn't even exist then. The Hive came into being as a small, but rapidly growing group of huge bees, with a mysterious power at their center. Red wasps, deadly enough when small and in swarms. Only more so when larger.

The Hive became fairly greedy. They began to attempt to dominate the land around them. The local Mere tribe, as you can imagine, weren't that happy. They started to fight them, aiming to kill the queen, but never got there. The Hive's masses were just too thick, even with all the ferocity of the hardened tribe against them.

One brave individual trekked into the Hive's land, managing to get just close enough to the Hive's home spire to shear away a piece of it. The only known material to have power over the Hive was the very obsidian that their home had been crafted from.

His last name was Nyghthelm. He took the Obsidian home, and crafted it into a sword. Using it, he was able to carve through the ranks of the Hive. The legend says he got to the queen."

Here Brendon faltered in his story. This next part was the one that had always managed to disturb him. More than that, the last part of the tale was the strangest and most unbelievable. Despite that he had seen the words in a tome created by the most accurate means possible.

"Yeah?" Lehvahk's earlier unwillingness had crumbled. He was rocking in place now like a child, blue eyes wide and clearly wanting to hear more. "What next?"

Brendon took a deep breath, then continued. His rapt audience continued to watch him with wide eyes.

"When Nyghthelm got there, he saw a god. Or rather, goddess. One that looked unlike anything in the pantheon, but radiated the power of one who couldn't be anything else. The queen of the Hive regarded him as the mortal he was, and he regarded her as the immortal she was.

Nyghthelm asked this goddess what she represented. The answer was remarkably simple. She replied, 'I am the desert. I am the wind that rakes the land, the sand that buries those of weak will. I am the desert creatures, that descend on those who fall to feed.'

'This sword can shatter your Hive, the spire, and your offspring, all at once.' Nyghthelm began the debate. 'Stand down, claim only a set amount of land, and stay there. If you do so, no Mere will turn this blade against you again."

The Hive's queen considered this. 'Acceptable. This, I will allow. We will take the land you let us have, in your brief ignorance.'

And so, Nyghthelm sealed their pact. A wall of rock was erected around the land the Hive had staked as it's place, and the warning rhyme was devised."

In the wake of Brendon's story, everyone was silent. Fearon was staring out the window at the red wastes of sand, Takar was running a strand of wire between his fingers, Somra looked lost in a daze, and Lehvahk's mouth had formed into a small circle, his eyebrows raised.

"Wow. That's right up there with the stories of the Great Expanse and the Sky Sirens."

"Both have the common theme of a large, desolate place, with malevolent forces. The only difference is that a lot of the time, people are safe from the Shifting Sands threats if they fly across it."

"How do you know so much, anyway?"

Brendon bit his lip. He didn't love talking about his childhood, but the period Lehvahk spoke of had actually been when his life had taken a turn for the better. "I read a lot-in the best place one can possibly go for that."

"Being..."

"Ever heard of Annul Sarquis? Come on, you have to have heard of it."

"Uhh..." Lehvahk's face was completely blank.

Brendon sighed. Before he could respond, Somra said almost exactly what he'd been thinking. "Ever heard of the Archival Librarium, bonehead? Annul Sarquis is it's actual name."

"Oh yeah! It's that big place with all the books."

Shock didn't even begin to describe what Brendon felt at that. Righteous fury was closer. How could anyone be so ignorant? "It is not just a big place full of books. The Archival Librarium's the oldest structure on this planet. It records all of history, keeps full skeletons in fossils, statues and artwork..."

"What, the building does that by itself?" Lehvahk snorted.

"Uh, yeah." Somra snapped with fury. "It does."

Lehvahk blinked. "You..seriously? It does?"

"Yes." Brendon replied in irritation. "I lived there for years. I loved it. That's where I met Somra and Fearon."

"Those two liked to read?"

"The Librarium has a kind of...effect on you." Fearon spoke quietly. "You feel like you want to read all the books, and actually absorb the history in them. It's really..."

"Peaceful," Somra finished. "The world feels far away, like it's only you, the building and the books. You forget about your problems. The Librarium's got powers, too, but no one knows the full extent of them."

"Only that the rooms deny physics, based on the outside structure of the building," Brendon picked up the commentary. "And that to find sections, you think of what you need and get teleported there. It isn't possible to walk between all the history in there-especially if you wanted info from all the way back in the first days of creation. And, like I said before...the building writes the books and gathers the artifacts."

Lehvahk whistled. "Whoa."

"Yeah. But as much as you three are enjoying your nostalgia trip, shouldn't the current dilemma be discussed? Obviously, no matter what I say, our brilliant leader intends to storm the Hive." Takar clipped something onto the wire he was holding, slight scorn detectable in his tone.

Fearon shot the pilot a venomous look. Brendon quickly interceded, not eager to see another fight. "Let's start talking strategy, then."

**As always, feedback highly desired. please leave some kind of review, even if it is only a few words, to tell me how you are liking this sotry and what you think of it. it boosts the writer's self belief in their talents a lot, especially when said writer doesn't have much steady support. **

**on that topic, thanks to GreyWolfDruid for bieng a steady supporter. it means more to me than i can put in words :D**


	9. The Hive

CHAPTER 9

**THE HIVE**

Personally, Brendon loved the plan they'd developed.

Smoke had been what had been used in the past to infiltrate the Hive-but personally and factually, Brendon didn't think it an effective way to go any deeper than the initial part of the fabled obsidian spire. They had caught a first, distant glimpse of it last night, after a day of flying and recovery, through telescope. A tall, black monolith, radiating menace. It was both thrilling, and downright terrifying in a stark, primal sort of way.

The structure dominated the land around it. It had helped make that land-the remains of the Hive's many victims had built the desert, down to every last grain. The Shifting Sands had been literally made by death.

_And clearly we're insane enough to challenge that power head on,_ Brendon had thought grimly.

He'd suggested the use of radio interference to scramble the Hive's collective communication. Several questions had arisen in the event of that proposition-one of the most prominent was Takar's, who had assumed correctly that such a tactic would need to have a powerful transmitter. Brendon had responded rather simply. All the brilliant but grumpy inventor had to do was enforce the Strikeflier's already powerful, worldwide radio.

The next part of the plan was the rather classic divide and conquer scenario. Fearon, Somra, and Lehvahk would be going ahead, to strike as far into the heart of the Hive as they could. Things got ambiguous there, given that there was no real info on what the colony hid in the deepest depths of the spire. Brendon and Fearon had both agreed that there was nothing else to do but plunge right in, be careful, and hope for the best. There was no way the target Acryonoi would be stupid enough to come out in the open. Going in was the only real option.

The next day was spent preparing. Lehvahk holed up in his room, and by the time he came out, he was decked in every small blade and firearm ammo they had available. He'd streaked black paint on his face. Despite the comical touch, the look in his eyes was rather cold.

Fearon stuffed more training in, aggressively working on the Fire and Lightning enhancement spell. He was panting and shaky when evening came around, but proudly knew he'd achieved a whole new mastery over the spell, perfecting what he had done in the fight against Ream.

Brendon tore through his spellbooks all night. He added more runes of power to his staff, knowing they'd help, but not sure how much. He was running on the hope that the unknown wouldn't have too many nasty surprises.

Somra did nothing more than sharpen her spear. The rhythmic grating of the sharpening stone comforted her on some subliminal level.

Takar spent it rewiring and adding to the ship's arsenal. By the time he'd finished, the Strikeflier had several new improvements, most of which invisible and adding to the old, small carrier's already excellent abilities.

There was nothing more to do but wait.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

The rising sun painted the desert a light red pink. The droning of ever present insects, hiding out of sight, seemed strongest at this time, when the wastes of the Shifting Sands woke up again.

Fearon, coincidentally, woke up first. It made it even harder to stand up-usually he slept late, given how fast he ran out of energy. Grimacing at the thought and fumbling for his medicine, he swallowed two of the pills without water. He didn't bother to fetch water-there was no warning against doing it this way.

He sighed in relief when the lethargy retreated. As he swung his legs of the bed and padded a few feet over to his dresser, Fearon felt his thoughts race back to Ream, and the aftermath of the fight.

He'd forgotten about the medicine that day. The pills were Corimads, a adaptive medical achievement that eased whatever ailment detected in the body. According to Brendon, they were a combination of magic and science, and had no ill effect unless taken in bulk without intervals. Of course, he didn't know about them. Fearon hadn't let anyone know.

But he nearly had. He'd lost track of when he'd last taken the stuff, and as a result, the battle with the spirit Ream had taken much more out of him than he'd wanted. Any longer in the eyes of his friends and he would have broken down.

Fearon's hands clenched tighter around the desert shawl he was clutching. His mind was now anywhere but his room.

_I can't be seen that weak again. _

Biting his lip sharply, Fearon drew the shawl across his shoulders and clipped it at the neck. After exchanging his pajama pants for a pair of light gray shorts, he exited the room amid the rattling of cooling pipes and vents. There was only one place to go now. The bridge, for debriefing.

Then the Hive.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Takar slung a heavy sword over his shoulder, tightening the strap. Grunting, he looked out the window. The brooding spire was their next destination. While everyone else seemed suitably cowed by it, from the pilot's viewpoint, the thing radiated fear.

They were all going to die. He huffed as he waited for the others to arrive. Terasal and the Hive were two fundamentally different things-not apparent from the outside, but it would likely be once the real action kicked off.

The bridge door ground open. Takar scowled, expecting it to be Lehvahk. If it was Brendon at least, they'd be easier to talk to-both of them were early risers by habit.

"Been awake all night, or just this morning?"

The voice sounded tired, and didn't belong to either of Takar's first guesses. He looked over his shoulder to see Fearon there, arms crossed. The question had lacked any bite. If anything, Fearon looked older than he was right now, tired and beaten.

When the leader spotted Takar looking at him, he made a visible effort to patch up his physical stance. It mostly seemed to work, but Takar couldn't unsee it. His curious mind only began to run over possibilities.

"And you look like you still haven't slept. One night doesn't make up for a few completely sleepless nights, you know."

"Yeah, I get that," Fearon responded flatly. "But everyone's not able to sleep sometimes."

Takar snorted derisively. Did the swordsman actually think he was that dumb? This was already looking even more idiotic than it had at first. An exhausted leader didn't bode well at all for them. And he didn't believe the 'sometimes,' not being able to sleep bit for a second.

And Takar thought he was the insomniac here-Fearon had broken his record of sleepless nights by a day.

"Whatever you say," he responded, equally a flatly. "But no one would think you're fine if they'd been here a second ago."

"Let it go, would you?"

The argument seemed to end there. The normal venom didn't seem to be in either of them, the Hive domineering their thoughts and eyes instead. Takar could swear it was getting closer. He glanced at the menacing black shape again, hoping he was wrong.

The pilot did turn out to be wrong. The Hive spire was where it had been all morning and the night before. Takar scrubbed his eyes with the back of his hand, irritated by the sheer pressure of all this.

Lehvahk didn't make his arrival quiet. He jumped whooping onto the table, landing in a semi crouch. Takar could feel the beginnings of a headache as the sniper yelled again. "Oh yeah! Let's go. Who's in the house? We are!"

"Please, for the love of the gods, don't be so dramatic," Somra acidically added her own piece. She tightened the straps on a pair of spiked gauntlets, the only additional kind of gear she appeared to have fetched besides her weapon. "I'm sure they _love_ watching you flash to the world."

The target of her fierce sarcasm just grinned and ignored the biting remark. He struck another pose. "Can't help it if the world thinks we are amazing. Hell, the whole universe probably knows."

"That also means they know how much of an idiot you are."

"I'm a selective idiot."

Somra raised a skeptic eye ridge. "Hehe, sure. Just cause you acted smart a bit doesn't mean you aren't inherently dumb."

"That doesn't matter right now." Brendon meandered in, wraps of runed cloth up and down the lengths of his arms and his staff, marked with even more, slung over his back. "Does it?"

"No, it doesn't," Fearon cut in pointedly. "All that will matter is that we can survive the battlefield and bag the shaman."

"Oh yes, how fun that'll be for you," Takar let a grin peek past his curled lip. "You'll be all the way down there, me up here. Sounds like a perfect recipe for success."

Generally, the pilot and the leader worked well together when needed-but Takar found it an uneasy thing at best. It was clear Fearon agreed, if the tightening of his jaw was anything to go by. "Yeah, kinda what I had in mind."

Takar whirled to face the Strikeflier's controls, sparking the ship alive with the flick of a finger. The systems hummed and vibrated as they came online. Fading footsteps heralded the departure of his teammates from the bridge.

"Prepared for sky drop?"

The query was partly a test, to see if the attack squad had gotten to the hangar yet. His heart skipped a beat when someone responded-Somra, it seemed. "Oh yeah. Skydiving without strings will be fun."

"Sure you don't want the skimmers?"

"Not worth it. They'd be a disadvantage down there anyhow in underground tunnels."

Fearon again. Him and Brendon seemed to like being the voices of reason. Takar bared his teeth in a silent snarl. No one wanted to listen to him when he tried that.

"Fine. Prepare for airdrop."

Takar throttled the ship into a higher gear, using the action to vent his frustration. The Strikeflier surged from zero to twenty ticks in the span of two seconds. A squawk and clatter from Scout didn't bother him-rather, the grumpy kerion took some minor, dark satisfaction in knowing that he may have unbalanced one of the idiots who wanted to go bee hunting.

The Hive loomed under them. Takar brought the Strikeflier to a halt, the small carrier drifting in the process. Three figures dove from the runway, into the small entrance at the tip of the spire.

Brendon had been hovering silently at his shoulder the whole time. Takar had noticed him even less amid his mental ranting, but now the mage drew attention to himself. "The Strikeflier's quiet, but not so much it wouldn't escape a red wasp's hearing."

"Yeah, we planned on that, remember? That way those three-" Takar jabbed a thumb in the direction of the invading trio-"Won't get eaten on the way down. Hopefully."

True to form, the rumble of the Strikeflier's engines, typically a barely decipherable hum while cruising, drew the Hive's aerial guardians soundly-aided by the radio wave signal sent out by the enhanced ship radio. The first one surged up with a harsh buzz, hitting a pontoon with its initial impact. Takar swore, gunned the engines, and shot away. The wasp, the size of a horse and far more vicious, gave chase. Two other wasps were right behind it.

Takar banked, then sent the ship into a arching dive. The broadside cannons flared, striking one wasp down, laming the other. It tottered uncertainly, one wing tattered. With a feral grin, Takar swung the ship around and accelerated once more.

The Strikeflier's sharp, sparlike pontoon rammed the bee, barely slowing the craft down. A crunch later, the huge insect had been torn in half, and the two halves fell, gaining momentum.

Takar laughed, envisioning the remains being a sand beast's lunch. His predatory gaze locked on to the last bee-only for two more to rise into the air behind it.

He growled in irritation and looked at the ship's radar screen. The erratic movement of the three green dots that were their teammates seemed to indicate fighting. He hoped that was the situation down there.

Brendon wasn't where he had been standing before. Takar blinked, realizing he must have lost track of that in the thrill of battle. The grating of the hangar door opening and closing was all the answer he really needed.

A flaring fireball scorched one wasp to a charred husk, while an arcane spear pierced another. Takar caught sight of the caster soon enough-Brendon was outside, in the air on his modified red Switchblade. One hand held the skimmer's handle, the other occupied with casting. Brendon had turned such fighting into an art.

The two caught each other's gazes and nodded. Time to unleash hell on the bugs.

Scout, still by the weapons controls, gave the pilot a toothy smile. He grinned back, a rare expression on his face. Steering the Strikeflier into a sharp turn, Takar blew past the newly arrived Hive guardians, causing them to tumble in midair.

It didn't last all that long. The wasps rightened themselves and flew after the ship again. Takar brought the Strikeflier to an abrupt near stop, then swung the ship around. One wasp was batted heavily by a pontoon, dazing it and causing the huge insect to flail. In a flash it had been frozen solid, tumbling down into the desert below.

Given that Brendon had taken care of that target for him, Takar signaled Scout to unleash the broadside cannons. The visorak screeched with vigor and obeyed. The boom of the artillery sounded, three other wasps caught in the blast. The two remaining, scarred and bigger than the others, let out a low, screeching hum Takar could barely hear thanks to his own keen hearing. They were calling more help.

Let them come…

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Lehvahk plummeted downward with his two companions, feeling strangely weightless. And calm.

A good thing, especially since he was part of making a safe landing so all of them wouldn't die.

"Now!"

A nod of understanding from Somra. Even as Fearon's shout faded, she had thrown a round, inscribed orb down into the dephs. It pinged against something hard-rock, maybe, but given this was an insect nest of giant bees, it could have been anything else.

Better not to think of it. Lehvahk unslung his rifle, twisting in midair to aim. The faint blue glow of runes could be seen even from up there. He shot, hitting the mark barely an effort for his skills. A burst of wind billowed up when the orb was destroyed, slowing the trio's fall.

It gave time to stare at what flashed past them on the rapid descent, and what was still extending into the dark below.

The Hive had existed for seemingly all time-nothing was more proof than the pyramid of bones and valuables on the uppermost level of the spire. The legends had described the grim monument as being wider, more of a pyramid, but it seemed to have undergone evolution like the Hive's obsidian spire. Now the pyramid had narrowed and slimmed, looking more like an obelisk than the more traditional shape in legends. The gruesome structure extended down to where the glow of the orb had been.

The three thumped to a solid landing. The very base of the obelisk, a complicated tangle of bleached white bones and rocks, was easier to look at in the near dark. The slight indentation around it seemed to show that the thing went even deeper.

But the residual effects of the deathly structure remained even when not able to see it well. Lehvahk felt slightly sick with fear, and Somra's rapid breathing seemed to indicate the same. The collection of bones, jewels and gold hadn't just appeared here-it had come from the Shifting Sand's many, countless victims over uncountable centuries. It was proof of their deaths, immortalized in a terrible way.

Lehvahk shuddered. He almost felt like the whispers of ghosts were wafting out of the bones and cobwebs.

"Too creepy. Really."

"For once, I agree with you," Somra grumbled reluctantly.

"What did you expect?" Fearon sounded grim and focused, and not on the obelisk of death. "The Hive's been around forever-it's always amassed what's left of everything that dies out in that desert. But that isn't our problem." He began to edge further off into the dark. Aware that varons had superior vision in said darkness, Lehvahk shrugged, tried to forget about the obelisk, and hurried after him. Somra followed, gaining ground faster. She grabbed his arm and roughly began to guide him.

The sniper squinted. The darkness had closed even more, in a manner that suggested a dark, enclosed space. They were going downward on a slanted slope, steep enough to warrant a slow approach.

He supposed the giant wasps didn't really care about that-they probably just flew down here.

A prick of light glinted ahead. A quick intake of breath from Fearon, and Somra started to move faster. The smooth slope evened out. The pinprick became a triangle, then they were out.

Only to freeze on the spot. The place they were now was a hollow chamber, the bone obelisk running straight through the middle. The light was coming from glowing, amber colored orbs that had been slipped into chinks between the bones. The structure had valuables in it again, too. Lehvahk spotted several gemstones, gold and silver rings, inscribed boxes-the list continued on, much in the same manner as the upper part.

This time, it wasn't the obelisk that gave the group pause. Rows and rows of horse sized red wasps lined the walls, those in immediate vision and the ones extending out of sight. A light chirring was all around them, doubtless coming from the millions of sleeping insects. The sound was worse than anything Lehvahk had ever heard before. It made him keenly aware of the thousands of sharp pincers and stingers that could be woken up with a single transmitted signal.

"If we wake any of these up, we don't survive," Fearon's voice was barely higher than a whisper. "Quiet. Got it?"

Lehvahk nodded slowly. Somra gave the leader a red eyed look of agreement.

Stepping as if walking on air, Fearon began to move with a sleek grace that Lehvahk couldn't copy for the life of him. Wincing and wishing he'd used a less grim comparison, the blizzarian sniper followed, stepping as lightly as he possibly could. It looked awkward, but kept Fearon in sight, and he was moving, after all.

Somra's following was-as Lehvahk jealously noted-a bit closer to Fearon's level. The midnight blue varon's eyes seemed less on the ground, though, and more above them.

Understandable. The pressure of the Hive looming all around them made Lehvahk feel remarkably claustrophobic, and he'd never felt claustrophobia before. He wasn't enjoying this new, primal fear the least bit.

The trio seemed to reach the triangular opening across the room in hours rather than minutes. Lehvahk released a long, quiet breath he hadn't known he'd been holding-then sharply inhaled when a new presence made itself known.

Three pairs of insect eyes were gleaming in the spaces between hewn rock walls, slick with a amber-like residue.

The eyes bobbed closer, revealing the intimidating, spiny bodies connected to them over time. Far from being normal wasps, Lehvahk felt his heart flutter when he found they were walking on two legs, bore rough armor made from bone, and each held a fearsome weapon-a sword, spear, and axe respectively. All three humanoid bugs had the battered, scarred looks of war veterans.

Upon their dramatic entrance, though, the giant insects were surprisingly slow to do anything directly threatening besides surrounding the group in a loose circle. Fearon drew both his swords, letting them hang loosely from his hands. Somra bared her teeth in a snarl. Lehvahk hesitantly moved his finger, removing the sound muffler on his rifle. He might need more power than the firearm could provide while hampered.

The real question was just what these three mystery guardians were capable of. Lehvahk was eying the still figures in an attempt to find out when Fearon abruptly broke the silence.

The dim amber glow had bleached his green blue scales a strange, orange hue. His swords were reflecting the light in ethereal glints. Lehvahk couldn't see the leader's eyes from were he was, especially with his black hair in the way, but Fearon sounded both controlled and angry. Typically, a sign he was ready, if not eager to fight. In a situation like this, Lehvahk couldn't help but think that detrimental.

"Just who are you? Why are you in our way?"

The guardian holding the sword tilted his insect head, antennae twitching. The weapon he held was two handed, with a wickedly hooked tip. The dangerous curves emphasized themselves when the huge bug shifted it in his hands, the light outlining the weapon in white.

Somra, her dark blue scales looking black in the shadow of the axe wielding guardian, growled in a threatening warning. "Better answer him, or I'll make this one talk," she snarled, jabbing her free hand in the guardian's direction.

Lehvahk hunched his shoulders, the brown blizzarian preparing for the worst. He raised his rifle to shoulder height, letting his gaze flit across all the enemies in turn. He wouldn't be surprised if that goaded them into attacking straightaway. It unnerved the sniper even more when the two legged wasps still didn't move.

A rasping voice answered Fearon's and Somra's demanding questions. It carried a low clicking undertone, causing Lehvahk's finger to tighten on the trigger. "How could such fragile beings hope to challenge us? Not only are you frail, flesh beings, you are young." the guardian let out a chirring laugh that was clearly contempt. "Never could you hope to win. Only the worthy pass by us, and that worth can only be earned by winning-and you will not win."

"Watch us," Somra held her spear across her chest.

"How about this?" Fearon sounded just as wired as his appearance seemed to indicate. "Do you have a renegade shaman sheltering in this hellhole of yours? Say no, and we'll leave. Say yes, then throw him out, and we'll leave to deal with him." Fearon's voice dropped to a low growl. "Either way, it ends better than if I have to kill all three of you to check myself."

The sword bearing guardian's eyes flashed. Lehvahk glanced over and gulped. Fearon's savage snarl was reflected several times over in the huge insect's refracted eyes. The look intimidated the sniper, even on the face of a friend, even as a former black market dealer.

"The Hive has the shaman, yes. The Hive is protected, long as he is satisfied," the guardian lowly intoned. The bipedal wasp's sword lifted. "He controls the earth. If he is satisfied, we are safe. The Hive is safe."

Fearon shifted by his stance near Lehvahk's shoulder. His tone shifted too, becoming more demanding. "So you do have him. Kick him out, or we'll come get him."

The guardian just seemed to sneer, even though the expression had no chance of actually forming on his insect head. The hooked sword swung. "Only the worthy may approach the Queen!"

"We didn't come here for your godsdamned queen!"

"Scatter!" Somra yowled. The three split up, the sword bearing wasp's weapon cleaving the ground where they had been standing. Dust blew upward in a curled torrent. Lehvahk performed the fire maneuver-stop, drop and roll-when an axe came whistling his way.

The other three bone adorned insect warriors, seemingly spurred into action by their leader's attack, had just begun to advance. The axe came down again, this time in a lightning quick downward cleave. Lehavhk rolled aside and in the same motion came to his feet, eyes wide and breath shallow at the near miss.

The third guardian, the one facing Somra, let out a high whine. The buzzing of millions of wings sounded from the chamber the group had just left.

"Blow the entrance! Collapse it!"

Somra didn't wait to follow Fearon's instruction. She pulled out a round explosive and threw it, lodging it in the rock above the triangle of light. Lehvahk shot not a moment after.

The rifle boomed. The explosive boomed a second after. The entryway came down in a tumble of rock. Frustrated scraping echoed from behind it.

"They will come through." Lehvahk backflipped, escaping another beheading. Metal clashed somewhere behind him as the lead guardian continued to talk. "It is only a matter of time."

"Who says you have any?" Fearon goaded, launching another attack.

The guardian blocked. His eyes glowed. "Me."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx\

Taking advantage of the brief respite, Takar wrung his hands, trying to flex the cramped muscles. The sky was clear of wasps for now-although none of it had been easy. The Strikeflier's patchy armor plates had been dented and scratched, and on one side a deeper rut had been carved. The streak of black insect blood by the graze served to show the point of impact.

His first indication of something wrong was when Scout threw his head to one side, ears swiveling. Then he dashed off, dizzyingly appearing again on Takar's right.

"Quit that, would you? I need straight vision to fire on the bastards," he snarled.

Scout gave him a wide eyed look of apology. Takar sighed. Scout was one of the few things he couldn't irrationally stay angry at. Maybe it was just that he always hung around the scarlet visorak…

All musings were broken when the radar went crazy. By then, Takar had already seen the cause past Scout's position by the window. He cursed loudly.

"Shite!"

The right side of the Strikeflier had ended up facing the Hive. Emerging out onto the tip of the structure was a new wasp, nearly as large as a small carrier-therefore, Takar noted with frustration, it was nearly the Strikeflier's size. The carrier was small as that sect of airships went. If the scarred, clearly battle hardened wasp made a solid hit or was able to get a good grip on the ship, it could do tremendous damage.

The insect's wings, more like a bat's than a bug's, tented slightly above the plated back. The wasp's head angled upward, the flashing eyes zeroing in on the red and gray carrier ship.

The tented wings snapped fully open. A powerful thrust sent the huge wasp screaming upward, creating a miniature sandstorm on the desert below.

Takar wrenched the ship sideways, pushing it into faster gear. The wasp's sharp pincers sparked along the side of one pontoon, creating another shallow graze. Grimly focused, Takar swung the Strikeflier back around, releasing a barrage from the broadside cannons.

The wasp was hit solidly, but in a show of strength it threw the batlike wings before itself. Flaring them, the wasp pushed through the clouds of explosives. Takar guided the Strikeflier out of the way. Riding on a burst of speed, he whipped the carrier around and in a lightning fast dash struck the wasp on the side of the head.

The sharp tip of the Strikeflier's right pontoon nearly gored the huge bug's multi faceted eye out. As it was, Takar was gone before it could strike back-and even then, he knew he'd achieved at least part of his objective. The pilot had been aiming to completely disable the eye. Even when blazing a hasty rush out of melee range, the pilot could tell that he'd at least half blinded his enemy.

The theory was supported when the wasp awkwardly turned in midair. One reflective eye blazed with rage, the other leaking black blood, the eye a mess of broken and torn tissue. A grating screech tore from the wasp's throat.

Takar smiled grimly. This would be a challenge. A beautiful aerial dance-one he would do everything in his power to win.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxx

Brendon was about to meet the wasp's ill tempered twin. He had watched the first one attack the Strikeflier. The hybrid insect's size and the sheer strangeness of it had attracted his attention, capturing it simply by the thing's essence. It looked primeval, old. Possibly as old as the Hive, even though there was no true way for the mage to know.

The wasp and Takar had now engaged in a fierce, elegant dance of conflict. The Strikeflier was always fascinating to watch in a fight-guided by a talented pilot, it moved like a bird of flashing metal, cannons blazing, swooping and diving out of reach.

The spectacle wasn't quite enough for Brendon to be taken completely by surprise should any danger approach. A whomp of wings from behind him sent the mage instinctively veering downward.

The second wasp just glanced the wing of the skimmer. It slowed, spun, and flapped huge batlike wings again.

The resulting wave of air sent Brendon tumbling backward. He recovered in time to see huge pincers closing in on him, and threw up a hasty arcane barrier. The insect reeled backward slightly, pausing in it's maddened attack. Brendon used the time, gunning the modified Switchblade so that the small vehicle was right above the beast.

Brendon set the skimmer on autopilot with the punch of a button. In a split second he had brought his hands together, aimed and recited a spell.

The resulting spectacle was hugely satisfying to Brendon's more sadistic side, and served to deal just as much damage as he'd wanted. Rings of fire appeared around the hovering wasp. The twenty foot monster found itself bound by them as the fire rings suddenly constricted. A anguished squeal worked it's way from the huge bug as it struggled to move, wings and body smoking.

The wings seemed to be taking the most damage, a benefit Brendon hadn't originally intended even with his clever mind. As it was, he'd take what he could get in terms of advantage.

Hastily recovering manual control, the draconic blizzarian darted even further out of range of his ailing target. The wasp thrashed even more. A particularly strong effort broke the monster free, dispersing the fire.

Reflective eyes refocused on Brendon. He gulped, easily reading one emotion in the strange orbs-anger, pure and unbridled. On one hand, it could make this somewhat easier. A more reckless target made stupid mistakes. On the other, if he was caught the bug would rip him apart.

Brendon winced at the mental imagery. He'd have to be extremely alert, fast-and likely lucky. Very.

The huge insect came at Brendon again, albeit in a far more crippled way than before. It was still shockingly fast. The mage had thought Teresal was hard, with the shocks of betrayal and the mayhem at the end-but this was quickly starting to outrank everything he'd seen before.

This was either going to fun or mortally terrifying.


End file.
